


Playing with Fire

by ColtsAndQuills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aromantic, Bad dirty jokes?, Behind the Scenes, Body Horror in Artwork, Changing Tenses, Childbirth, Community: spn_reversebang, Demons, Historical Fantasy, Nudity in Artwork, Other, Past and Present, Smutty but no~t quite explicit solstice orgy, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving between the present and the past, this is the untold story of how a single fire in 17th-century Scotland laid the path to one cursed man's salvation, more than 300 years later. </p><p>Chapters alternate between present-day Rowena (first person POV, beginning with her imprisonment by Sam) and a 3rd-person retelling of what made her into the woman she is today.</p><p> <i>Canon-compliant until S11E10 (The Devil in the Details).</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interim

**Author's Note:**

> So much love and thanks to give that I could never find enough words. To my betas [sweetasscas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetasscas/pseuds/sweetasscas) and [200dollargod](http://200dollargod.tumblr.com), thank you for spending hours editing, answering my endless questions and concerns, giving encouragement, and putting up with me in general. Big hugs also to [Saiorse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saiorse/pseuds/Saiorse) for providing me with fun music mixes and enthusiasm that kept me charged in these final hours.
> 
> And last but not least, glomps and gratitude to my partner in crime for this fic, [kalliel](http://kalliel.livejournal.com/)! She not only supplied the gorgeous artwork that gave this story life, but showed amazing patience and kindness as I tackled my first fic challenge. Whoo, we did it!

 

My story will have a happy ending.

Now, given the fact that I’m all trussed up in chains by the majestic Samuel Winchester, no doubt your mind is going to some very naughty places. But, while I’m admittedly the kind of lady that doesn’t mind an occasional indulgence with less conventional kinks, that’s not the kind of happy ending I’m talking about.

No, I’m talking the fairy tale sort. The kind that resolves with a forever and permanent happily-ever-after.

What’s with that skepticism? Don’t believe me? Well, you can’t entirely be blamed, I suppose. Likely, you’ve been raised on stories where only innocent princesses and doey-eyed maidens are rewarded in the end.

But that’s a lie.

That’s right, my darlings. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you need to be beautiful and wholesome and from a princely family and the recipient of a noble prince’s kiss to earn yourself eternal bliss. The secret the world doesn't want to let us all in on is this:

All you need is you.

So kick Hans Christian to the gutter, and don’t put your faith in the Brothers Grimm. In fact, stay clear of brothers in general.

They tend to be a mighty pain in the ass.


	2. Chapter 2

_"That's the problem, Dean. They're human. They're like everyone else."_  

__— Sam Winchester, 3.09, Malleus Maleficarum_ _

 

* * *

  

The small girl begged God to make the village quiet, but she didn’t beg very hard. Although she had only been in the world for five short years, based on previous experience, her expectations of assistance from a faceless deity were low. Instead, she tried to focus on turning herself inward, to a place beyond the reach of gnashing teeth and screams for blood. But her mother wouldn’t allow it and gave her a good shake.

“Rowena, I am doing this for your own good. Stop closing your eyes! Look there!”

Rowena didn’t want to look; she already knew what she would see. The faces of the villagers would be pink, not from the damp chill that filled the autumn air, but from the anger that boiled beneath their skin. Dull, dirty streets that should be filled with the simple rituals of village life would instead be pummeled beneath crowds of stamping feet, and the earth would be weeping, filling the deep footprints left in their wake.

Some of the villagers shouted; some spat. A wildness filled their eyes, and Rowena shivered, thinking of the spirits that wailed among the hills at night. She wished to lose herself among the many legs and skirts, to dart between them as she would the ancient trees that followed the river, but her mother caught her chin and directed her stare to a growing break in the crowd.

“Over there? See her? That’s a _witch_.”

Left with little choice, Rowena’s eyes followed the path set by her mother’s grip, but she saw no witch. Instead, there was only a young woman, the kind of girl Rowena herself would be in ten years time. The young woman’s cheeks were streaked, but her gaze was clear, her lip still. To Rowena, she was the only human face in a sea of demons.

Fists shook as the woman passed, curses and slurs striking her from all sides, but none in the crowd, save for the village’s authority, dared touch her. It wasn’t decency that stilled their hands, but fear.

That’s all any of this was, Rowena realized. Fear. The air was so heavy with the emotion that she could taste it, sour and thick, every time she breathed.

“She tried to seduce Donnan. When he refused her, she killed his wife, the poor creature. He came home to find her with her throat slashed, and her heart torn straight from her chest. They say the witch ate it. Raw and bloody.”

Isobel looked down to her daughter, to survey the horror she hoped to seed, but the child was frowning, brow drawn.

“If she’s so terrifying and powerful, why doesn’t use her magic to escape?” Rowena asked.

Isobel dug her fingers tight enough into the girl’s shoulder to make her cry out.

“Quiet!” Her mother flapped her arm toward the village circle, where the young woman was being lead, and they all followed, like children eager for a sweet. “We have the pastor watching over us. He keeps the Lord close. She can’t use her powers here.”

Rowena stared at the village minister, a small man of much talk and little action. He spoke the word of God, but usually in a voice so frail that Rowena often imagined him shaking apart as he preached, like a tree losing leaves in a good gust of wind.

Witch or not, Rowena decided the condemned woman’s good behavior was likely due to the two large men who dragged her along — far more than the prayers of a feeble pastor, anyway.

“What’s her name?” Rowena asked.

Isobel frowned. “She’s a vagrant. A beggar passing through. No one cares.”

That seemed terribly sad to the small girl, and so she took it upon herself to give the young woman a name. This way, at least one person could remember her for who she was rather than who these people wanted her to be.

 _Agnes. Like Black Agnes of Dunbar_.

Agnes was brave in her march. Up ahead, Donnan, her accuser, barked insults and punched his fists at the sky. His hateful accusations shattered the air like bolts of lightning, and each time the crowd echoed his hatred in a rolling peal of thunder. To Rowena’s amazement, Agnes didn’t seem frightened. The young woman bared the storm unflinchingly.

At least, until the pile of kindling came into view. Then she began to sob.

Agnes was not the first woman in the village to be tried a witch, but they were a quiet community, one that tended to end their hysteria with a humble rope and clean snap of a neck. Agnes had not been expecting a stake, nor the red whips of flame that already trembled hungrily from the ends of oiled torches. Her tears began in earnest, her cries of innocence now punctuating the roar of the villagers, wild and high, and Rowena thought of an injured bird struggling for the sky. The men pulled and bound her.

“If I were a witch, I wouldn’t let them burn me. I’d fight. I’d cast a spell that would destroy every person here,” Rowena protested. “I would—”

Rowena’s mouth flooded with the taste of copper as Isobel’s hand struck her cheek. A breath later, and she was pulled tightly to her mother’s breast.

“Remember the word of God, Rowena. Thou shalt not kill.”

A few feet away, Rowena felt a rush of heat as a fire was stoked, its flames soon licking at the hem of Agnes’s dress. Liking the taste, the fire grew bolder, tracing the pale skin of the condemned girl with golden fingers. That’s when a different kind of screaming began, one that struck the crowds silent.

 

 

Later that evening, while her parents were out, Rowena sat in the corner of her small home, watching a candle. She could make its flame dance and ebb at will, but she couldn’t bring herself warmth. Not the kind that could be felt from a father’s lap, or a mother’s arms. There, in the darkness, Rowena pondered the flexibility of God’s laws and wished she had someone to hold her.


	3. Interim

Mine and Samuel’s secret society has grown with the addition of two: a nerd and an angel, to be exact. I’d like to say I’m overjoyed at having a bit of company, but neither are turning out to be satisfying houseguests. 

For starters, he  has neither halo nor feathers. I am bitterly disappointed. It's like meeting Santa and finding out he has no beard. Is nothing sacred? 

And her? Well, she’s certainly had some darkness in her past, but ultimately she’s a good girl, and I’m certain you already know my opinion on those.

Speaking of good boys and girls, you should have heard Samuel earlier, rallying up his soldiers. Between the hair and his inspiring pep talk, he was one kilt away from a proper channeling of William Wallace. I’m not so certain the others were very convinced, however, and I don’t blame them.

“Look, we’re up against it, ok? And we’ve all been up against it before, and we know there are times when every choice sucks. Now us, lying to Dean, is the choice that sucks the least.”

When Samuel said that, despite wanting to show every bit of cooperation, I couldn’t help it; I shook my head. Not that anyone had the good sense to notice and ask my opinion. He can try to “put lipstick on the pig,” as the expression goes, but there’s no denying what lies beneath all of his good intentions — deception. And those unwittingly on the receiving end of a lie more often than not wind up victims of the truth. 

Especially in this case, I expect. 

These three are searching for what “sucks the least,” and therein lies their ignorance. There is no least, no most. We’re playing with magic, and with magic, you ultimately get what you give. It’s a game of sacrifice. 

And Dean Winchester has become a piece on the board without even realizing it.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Burn, witch. Burn.."_

— _Dean Winchester, 3.09, Malleus Maleficarum_

 

* * *

 

(7 Years Later) 

Rowena did not want a destiny, and so she ran. She ran from the village and its safe routines, its predictability, its safe promises of Heaven. And Hell. She ran from her parents’ judgment, her mother’s painful idea of love. Rowena ran between the trees like a girl who had never heard of fate.

_“Ever since I could remember, I have known,_

_that children by candle light_

_have seen a shadow on the wall_

_and have chased it all night through.”*_

The others could have their safe, predictable lives; she had the universe. Her bare feet scattered the cool soil as she ran, and when she danced, heels kicking up clover, the sun-dappled grove became her entire world.

In the distance, a church bell’s warning rang over summer fields, but the sky gleamed far too bright, the land too green, to spend the morning hidden behind dreary walls and solemn stone faces. In the company of the others, she was an illusion, a young actress fumbling to find the right lines to appease her audience. But out here, away from their eyes, she was only herself. And so she sang all the louder to prove that she existed, to cover up the bell’s mournful tolls.

_“Busily they have tried,_

_to catch it with all their might._

_And when they most expect to catch it,_

_it shoots most quickly out of sight.”_

In moments like these, Rowena ran free.

All of it was hers. From the river that rushed at her side, to the clouds trailing above in her wake. She laughed as she fell upon the rich moss and playful harebells, breathing deep, the sweet scent of the earth far better than the stench of sheep or mortar that clung to the men her parents would someday have her married off to.

But they could never understand any of this. None of the villagers could.

Mean, blind things. Their noses were always stuck in that book, smearing inky passages, trying to glean light into their dreary lives, when all the answers to anything they could ever seek was all around them.

Day by day, she was learning ways to heal that were beyond the reach of half-wives and medicine men. The proper combination of herbs and smoke could pry the truth from a liar’s lips, renew the love between wary hearts. Someday, it’d be within her power to answer the every wish and desire of her village’s people.

And they’d kill her in a moment if they ever knew.

_“This shadow never shall be caught,_

_in any trap they lay._

_This shadow in the likeness of_

_this world and yesterday.”_

 To her left, a scuttle amid the heather quieted the song on her lips. Rowena smiled and pushed to her feet.

“Ah, hello there.” She smiled at the rabbit, a tiny thing that lay low and quivered at her approach. Rowena’s snare was looped securely in place, but thankfully, the animal’s neck hadn’t snapped. It didn’t owe its life to sloppy workmanship on her part, however. Rowena had spent a good long while perfecting her traps, setting the knots to hold fast, but not to kill.

“Shush, shush.” She dropped to a knee, stroking the coarse hairs between its ears.

“I wish it were different, but to get something, you have to give. It’s why I can’t spend more time with ya.” She drew her knife and in one smooth motion slit the animal’s throat. “The trick,” she gently noted, “ is to not care, and then the sacrifice doesn’t hurt so much.”

Magic was a touchy art, and one Rowena played with by instinct. Fingers dripping, she drew markings on her forearm, never with objective, simply doing what felt right. At first, there was only the tacky warmth of the drying blood, but then a tickle began in her veins. It thrummed and crawled along her skin, like the sensation of approaching lightning, raising the fine hairs on her arms. This time, as with every other before, it made her lips hum and tingle. Without being told, she knew the sacrifice could harness a power, bring about true magic, if only she had the right words.

But no matter how intently she focused, the spell eluded her. Lyrics to a song never heard but somehow remembered.

“What a waste,” she groaned, dropping her prey. Blood bloomed across the white fur, like a rose in snow. Long ago, images like this gave her nightmares, but she had grown to respect the color red. To even like it.

With hopes for magic abandoned, the sight of the meat in the grass made Rowena ache for a different reason. What she wouldn’t give to skin the beast and start a fresh roast, but one well-fed family among a village of the famished was not a welcome one. Survival meant staying low, and for now, starving with the rest.

She undid the snare, ran her fingers over the pelt. Perhaps parts of the rabbit could still be harvested. As with the runes painted on her skin, sometimes Rowena felt guided by mysterious impulses. It was like scratching at an itch without pausing to consider the cause. Regardless of where the inclinations came from, they were how Rowena developed many of her amateurish potions. Like a bird knows which berries to eat and which to avoid, lest it be poisoned, Rowena simply knew when she was on the right track.

Yes, she’d bury the animal for now, and come back to salvage the rest later.

Burying her hands in the earth, still soft from the morning’s rain, she began to dig. The labor passed quickly, but no sooner had she settled the animal in its grave than a rumble echoed through the woods. Rowena shot up from where she crouched, breath held. This area rarely resonated with this particular kind of noise, but she recognized it all the same — horses. And not a few riders, from the volume of it, but a group of some number. Enough to draw people into the streets. It was exactly what she didn’t want, seeing as how she was supposed to be home sick in bed.

Rowena was young yet, but she had learned the best of curses from her father. These came in handy as she began running.

Thankfully, home was several miles from the village center but not from the wood, so she didn’t have far to go. As she broke through the line of trees, she spotted her parents returning from their morning prayers, but luckily for her, the distant figures on the road monopolized their attention. It gave her the time she needed to dash into the house unseen.

A few minutes later, once Rowena was safely in bed, the heavy door of the little stone home opened and closed. She peeked an eye open and spied only her mother. No doubt her father was outside, watching for the riders.

“Ah, awake, are ya?” Isobel asked. “How are you feeling?”

Rowena tossed and turned, her hair a wild tumble on the pillow.

“I prayed the Lord to take this pain, but ooh, it hurts! If only I knew what purpose I should be serving through my suffering—”

The swoosh of Isobel’s skirt was Rowena’s only warning. She hurried to grip her blanket, but her mother was faster, ripping it aside to reveal feet caked in mud. As if that weren’t enough, treacherous brambles of heather clung to Rowena’s arisaid, now wrinkled and grass-stained.

Between the riders and now this, Rowena’s morning really wasn’t going as planned.

But, she had made an art out of being adaptable, and immediately dove into one of her signature performances: brows arched and humbled, lips wide, the _how did that get there?_ look.

“You’re a terrible, melodramatic liar,” Isobel snapped. “You’ll go tomorrow morning to beg the Lord forgiveness for your absence from service.”

The innocence passed from Rowena’s face as smoothly as the close of a curtain.

“If I’m such a terrible liar, then why would I bother with an apology?”

That was all it took to light _The Spark_ , as Rowena called it. Like many of the women in her village, Isobel was a force as vibrant and searing as the hair that passed through generations of her family. A country torn by war and famine and plague, one after another and with each mixed between, did not breed weakness, especially in remote villages such as this. Her mother might fall to knee for an unseen deity, but little less. Let alone the slip of a girl she had birthed, thank you very much.

Except, that was no longer the case. Not entirely.

Isobel glared at Rowena with eyes that burned, but any urge to reprimand lay cold and silent on her lips.

“I thought some fresh air would help me feel better, so I went for a walk in the forest,” Rowena amended. “And, as you can see, I’m feeling much better. A bit of time among God’s land was all I needed, mm?”

For years now, Rowena had played her parents’ game of pretend for the sake of her own peace. When the villagers murmured about the witch hunts sweeping the country, she gasped and quivered with the rest of the girls. If someone crossed themselves at the mention of the Devil, Rowena would announce, too loudly for her mother’s liking, “Lord have mercy on us all!”

But as much as she played the part, Rowena never forgot who she was, and neither did her parents.

“Here!” A heavy hand fell upon their door three times in quick succession, making Rowena jump. “Isobel! Get out here with your daughter! We have to go to the center!”

“What’s your father up to, banging about like that?” Isobel swept past Rowena’s bed to join her husband at the door. A man with little room for nonsense, Edan wore a permanent frown like a badge of honor, but this behavior was curious. Usually he was calm, even if his temper was on the rise, but now, his knuckles were white and knotted. Rather than meet his eyes, Rowena stared at the dark hairs on his fingers as she drew close to them both.

Isobel huffed. “If that’s more soldiers coming down the road, send them on their way. We barely eat as it is. We have no room for them.”

“Don’t look like soldiers. And if they are, I doubt billet is what they’re after. See, there.”

Rowena squeezed between her parents. Her father stiffened slightly and her mother pulled away, but she was so used to the reaction that she hardly noticed. Her attention was on the horses shambling in the center of a crowd of men. Their formation was strange, with several of the riders crowded about a single figure on horseback.

“A prisoner?” Isobel aloud. “Are they guarding someone? But why would they come here?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” replied Edan. “Rowena.”

She jerked. It was odd to hear her father speak her name. More often than not, she was “your daughter” or simply “the girl;” he said it the way he’d refer to their goat.

“Fix yourself up,” he continued. “Your mother might not speak back at you, but the town is less quick to forgive.”

Rowena didn’t argue, and rushed to swipe the dirt from her legs and pull the brambles from her skirts. She had barely slipped her shoes back on when they were out the door, joining others on the path to the village center. Men were being called in from fields and women were scurrying about, trying to collect their children.

Their village was too small to attract much attention, save for the occasional offer of quarters during wartime, or the merchants and beggars who passed by on their way to bigger and better places. The dust kicked up by the horses’ heels, the thud of their hooves in the road, excited the youngest and made wary the adults.

Rowena, though she considered herself far more mature than the other children, nearly skipped in her anxiousness to get a peek at these unexpected visitors. More than once, her mother had to pinch at her clothes to pull her back into step at her side. It seemed to go on forever, an eternity of dragging their feet through the mud, until finally they reached the heart of the village and could see what the fuss was about.

Cries and gasps were rising up from the crowd, and several of the mothers were yanking their children back, their bony hands shielding the eyes of the youngest among them. While Isobel hesitated at her husband’s side, Rowena edged her way closer, the villagers’ reactions beckoning her nearer to the action.

At the center of a formation of rugged men rode a woman on a dapple mare. Her hands were bound, and beneath a heavy sage hood, a course blindfold covered her eyes. The men accompanying her were forming a circle around the crowd, and though an intimidating bunch — what with strange weapons at their hips, and odd tattoos on the backs of their palms — Rowena didn’t see what the big deal was. They were only men, and the woman at their center was like any other. Or so she thought, until the woman turned smoothly in her direction.

Rowena’s startled gasp joined the many.

The woman’s face was fair and simple and at peace, save for a thick cord of black woven into her lips. It shaped her mouth into a pretty silence like a corset shapes a figure.

“The Great Witch of Balwearie!” a woman cried. Her voice skipped over the crowd like a stone on water, and similar exclamations rippled after.

_Witch…?_

Rowena’s eyes widened, and she spied on her mother for confirmation.

“Impossible!” Isobel exclaimed, yet she was making the sign of the cross over her breast. “Margaret Aiken? She’d be over 100 years old!”

“Immortality is one of the Devil’s gifts,” whispered the village welder. “Time can’t touch shadows, and that’s all that’s left of a witch. Soulless whore.” And he spat on the earth as Margaret’s horse pawed at the dirt. “At least she serves a purpose.”

“What purpose?” asked Rowena. The man, so quick to share his opinion a second before, turned away, silent, at her question. Unperturbed, Rowena turned instead to her mother. “Who is she? What purpose?”

Her parents exchanged a look, and her mother's fingers flit across her shoulder, here and gone, like a cold summer breeze. Rowena’s spine crawled beneath her skin.

“Line up! Line up!” the village constable shouted, shepherding displeased men and nervous women to the edges of the square.

It was a quiet affair, each one of them falling silent as they looked upon the strange woman and her scarred, pale lips. Rowena stared hard, trying to see a glimmer of magic, a shadow of a kindred spirit. She had never met another person like herself before. The possibility made her heart shake.

“What are they going to do to her?” Rowena asked. Isobel narrowed her eyes warningly at the urgency in her daughter’s voice.

“They won’t be doing a thing to her,” said the baker’s wife, who stood to Rowena’s other side with her four young boys. “The Witch of Balwearie is the dog of the Hunters. Sniffs out others of her kind like a mutt to a fox.”

Rowena tried to smile, but couldn’t. For once, she couldn’t call upon any of her needed masks.

 _I must run_ , she thought, but she could not.

There were no plump people, not in these past few years, not when a bowl of simmered kale made for a meal, and Rowena found herself with nowhere to hide.

_Thin legs. Thin bodies. We’re all bustled together like shards of kindling, ready for the fire._

The comparison came unbidden, and she bit the tip of her tongue to pull her imagination to heel.

“Mother, that’s not true, is it?”

Isobel didn’t reply, so Rowena turned to the other adults. What truths people hid with their silence were often revealed in other ways, so long as you had the sense to look.

The crowd was a tide of wide eyes and lips pressed thin. Hands and shoulders were clutched between family members as they drifted closer to the activity, only to roll back at the sight of Margaret Aikens as she was paraded among them. Their fear was to be expected, but Rowena saw deeper than that, and what she found made her press closer to her parents.

“Mother…” she whispered.

These days, most of the villagers wandered through their days with dull stares and empty stomachs. But now— now their eyes were sharp with hunger, having finally caught a scent of hope. There was nothing quite like a witch-burning to guarantee an end to a faulty bout of weather or crops.

Rowena pulled at her mother's sleeve, plucked at the edge of her father’s kilt, but neither responded.

 _They don’t want to draw attention to us_ , she told herself. She tried to follow their example, but one of the Hunters took notice of her quivering. Rowena cried out when he pat her curls, to which he responded with a deep belly of a laugh.

“Easy, child. The innocent have nothing to fear from this one. Lest you’re a witch, of course.”

His eyebrows playfully waggled at her, like two red worms. Were it in her power, Rowena would turn into a bird, pluck them free, and then fly far from this place.

“Aye, sir,” she agreed, and ducked her face into her mother’s plaids, as if shy. From there, she saw her parents exchange another curious look.

“Is this everyone?” called a man at the forefront of the group. Dropping from his own mount, he took Margaret’s by the reins and lead her in tow.

“I’ll speak plain, so my men and I can do our work and then leave you good people in peace,” he continued, his voice like a musket shot. “Now, these days, there are those who believe less and less in the faerie folk and magicks of old. They’ll tell ya we’re past that, and in many ways, aye, the world is changing around us. But there are some things that will never change. The Lord will always be up above, and sure enough, the Devil down here among us.”

Margaret, without further incitement, slid smoothly from her saddle. Despite the cover on her eyes, she moved to the man’s side with sure, even steps. When she pulled back her hood, she revealed a face barely marked by time.

Some dropped their jaws at her inexplicable youth, while others recoiled — unreasonably repulsed by beauty, as far as Rowena was concerned. For a moment, she forgot the threat Margaret’s powers posed, too captivated by her unspoken promise of immortality.

 _I can live forever_.

“Lucky for you,” the man continued, “we’ve turned the Devil’s trickery against him. Lads and lassies, you’ve heard the tales, and we’re here to present them to you as truth. I give to you the Great Witch of Balwearie.”

He tore away the blindfold, and this time, Rowena jerked back with the crowd. Beneath fair lashes, the woman’s eyes were as milky as a spring moon.

“Don’t let her fool you,” the man warned. “They can see well enough for what we need.”

As he spoke, Margaret stepped away from him. She looked dreamlike, with her ghostly silver gaze, and steps as smooth as starlight on water.

The Hunter folded his arms. “Everyone here wants this damnable famine to end, so I expect no one will have any complaint about the process. Won’t hurt a bit. All you need do is look the witch in the eye. Good Christian folk, as I imagine all of you are, have nothing to fear. But if you’ve got the Devil in ya— well, she’ll see his mark in your eye.”

He stopped, then, concentrating on their reaction.

 _He’s already looking for the guilty_ , Rowena realized.

At twelve, she was petite for her age, and thought they might pass her by, so long as she stayed still enough.

_I am small. I am silent. I’m like a moth. No one can see me. I am safe._

Rowena repeated it within, again and again. The lines were familiar, being the only prayer she ever returned to. There was no magic in the words, none that Rowena knew of, and yet if she focused, let the pulse of her heart move every syllable, they sometimes had a way of making her… overlooked. No small feat for one with a torch of hair.

_I am safe. I am safe._

The crowd around her stirred, the witch moving closer.

_I am safe and…_

Rowena knotted her hands into tight fists, obstinately lowered her brow, forgetting her usually careful efforts to play whatever part was due.

_I am safe and I’ll live forever._

Margaret had reached her parents. Rowena didn’t dare raise her face, but she heard her father grunt, saw the tips of her mother’s fingers tremble.

_safesafesafesafe_

The scent of ash, black and hot, burned in her nose. Rowena pressed her lips tight, knowing if she were to breath she’d swallow charred air, choke on it, reveal herself and die screaming. It was a dream she’d had for years, and now, Margaret Aiken was about to make it a reality.

But the witch walked past her with hardly a glance.

Rowena froze, stunned. Had she somehow hidden herself? Or was this blind woman a lie, no more magical than the people cowing at the sight of her? It didn’t matter, really. This time, when Rowena told herself she was safe, she knew it to be true. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back a sudden fit of giggles.

Eager to meet her mother and father’s relief, Rowena smiled up at them.

In return, Isobel gripped her by her collar and shoved her violently forward.

Rowena crashed into wool that smelled sour with travel. Beneath her palms, another heart was beating, but far slower than her own. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. If she met those eyes, they’d know her secrets. And then the villagers would burn her alive. She’d die screaming and they would all smile and no one would even remember her because no one knew the real her.

While the panic wreaked havoc in her mind, elegant fingers slipped below her chin, and Rowena suddenly found herself so close to Margaret Aiken that the tip of her nose brushed against the other woman’s.

The world disappeared at the contact. Lost to a blaze stronger than any summer sun, the faces around them bleached and faded, burned away with the rest of the village by a nickel light. Margaret was ice to Rowena’s flames, each witch drawn to and devouring the other, until Rowena was certain her heart would burst.

“Well? What’s the verdict? Is there a witch in our midst?” asked the man.

And like that, the spell was broken. Rowena fell backward with a cry, this time striking the ground. None of her own moved to help her up, and the Hunters merely chuckled. The connection had lasted no more than a second.

Margaret nodded in answer to the question, but Rowena didn’t notice. From down in the dirt, she had a perfect view of her parents’ hands — they were were clasped tightly, united in unspoken agreement.

_What truths people hid with their silence were often revealed in other ways, so long as you had the sense to look._

Above her, the adults had ceased moving, riveted on Margaret. Only one of the baker’s children paid Rowena any mind. Hardly more than a toddler, he sucked at a dirty thumb and stared at the trembling girl.

 _My mum and dad are trying to kill me. Did yours ever do that?_ she wanted to ask.

The truth was poison. It numbed her pain, but only for a second. The betrayal was working its way through her chest, jagged and consuming, until despair hardened in her veins, turning her blood hot and sharp under her skin.

 _They’re already burning me alive_ , she thought.

Beneath her sleeve, Rowena ran her thumb along the markings she had painted earlier, feeling the blood of the morning’s kill. There was no magic in the symbols, but there was strength in knowing what she was.

If she were to die, she’d bite, she’d claw. She was not Agnes. She wouldn’t let them lead her quietly to the fire.

The Great Witch of Balwearie raised her finger to sentence someone to death. Without question, Rowena knew Margaret had seen what she was, and that no amount of acting could save her. So she tensed, ready to fight or flee.

But Margaret’s accusation was not aimed at her. Instead, the blind woman pointed to the baker’s wife, whose face fell like dough as she was named a witch.

Panicked, the woman turned from one face to the next, but if there was sympathy to be had, no one acted upon it. Already the Hunters were advancing forward, their earlier wry and cheer gone. Perhaps she would be afforded a trial, but given the measures involved, she was likely to be dead soon either way.

Rowena gaped at what was either an outright lie or a ridiculous mistake.

_If she’s a witch, I’m a selkie._

Margaret Aikens turned her back to the crowd and grew very still, the only peaceful figure in what had become a restless throng. Her lips never moved, and yet Rowena had the strange impression she was smiling at her.

_“Meet me at midnight. We shall camp at the edge of the village.”_

Rowena grabbed her head, not in pain, but alarm. The words she heard were not her own, and yet they had buzzed within her skull like an unpleasant thought.

“What?” she gasped, but it was too late. Margaret was already being pulled by the Hunters, who were in a hurry to move things along.

Executions were not a tidy business.

 

*****

It was easy to get out of the house that night. Her parents wouldn’t look at her, never mind scold her to stay put. And to Rowena’s delight, sneaking into the strangers’ camp was a cinch. The villagers, grateful for services rendered, had paid the Hunters in liquor what they couldn’t afford in coin. The few who were sober enough to be aware of their surroundings were too busy discussing their upcoming hunt to notice a child lurking in the brush.

Rowena was crawling between fire and tent when the tendril of thought wiggled between her ears.

_“She’s like a little candle flame, quivering in the breeze. But one good push to tip the wick, and then she’ll be ablaze.”_

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rowena hissed into the darkness.

_“It means you should stop wriggling about like a glowworm, move roughly ten meters to your left, and look to the rowan tree. They’ve tied me to it quite snugly.”_

Margaret sounded amused, and Rowena’s face flushed. It wasn’t as if she enjoyed dragging knee and belly in the dirt, but the Hunters wouldn’t be pleased if they found her sneaking about. Now that she knew where Margaret was, however, she took a chance and ran the rest of the way.

“You’re a real witch,” the girl said, breathlessly agog, once at Margaret’s side. The woman looked the same as before, save for the tired shadows beneath her eyes.

_“Mm, once upon a time, mayhaps.”_

“But you can do real magic!” Rowena protested.

_“There’s more to being a witch than just magic.”_

“Like what?”

_“Like family.”_

Rowena shifted from one foot to the next where she crouched, confused and impatient. “I already have a family. You saw them today.”

Margaret’s eyes hardened, frost on an empty windowpane.

_“That is not a family. A coven is a family. And you, little flame, are alone.”_

Rowena balked, forgetting to keep her voice low. “You don’t know a thing about me!”

_“I don’t need to. It’s always the same, ‘less you’re one of the few raised into the craft, or have dealt with the demons to receive your gift. And I daresay, you’re a bit young for their tastes.”_

Rowena puzzled over Margaret’s meaning, and the woman sighed, though she spoke with patience.

_“There are three kinds of witches, my girl, and a measure of sacrifice comes with each. First, there are those who learn their magic by the book, wielding only that which they can manage through hard study and practice. Then there are those who make deals with the Devil’s own, trading their immortal souls for power — ha! I can tell by the look on your face you hadn't believed you had a soul. It’s true. Your soul is as real as the Devil’s hunger for it.”_

“But I haven’t done either of those things! I’ve always been like this. I’ve never had to sacrifice a thing!”

 _“No?”_ Margaret asked, smiling knowingly. _“Hmm, I suppose not. You are someone special. A natural witch. A girl born with magic in her veins, same as blood courses through the rest of them.”_

Someone special. Not disgusting, or damned. But special. Rowena smiled in the darkness.

“Is that what you are, too? A natural?” she asked.

Margaret shook her head.

“Then that means I’m stronger than you?”

The woman’s laughter danced between Rowena’s ears. _“That quick to challenge your elders, eh?”_

“It’s not _you_ I want to challenge,” Rowena replied, staring hard at the black cords sewn into the woman’s lips. “But I won’t ever let men do such things to me.”

Margaret’s smile darkened. _“Praise be that’s the truth, my little one.”_

Already Rowena felt emboldened. Images of a life far from this village, free from the cruel eyes of common humans, painted a vibrant future in her mind.

“I’ll follow you!” she announced, decision made.  “I can stay hidden, slip into your camps only at night, and you can teach me—”

_“You have nothing to gain by trailing in my shadow, child. What you need is a witch.”_

“But you are a—”

_“Did you already forget what I said? It’s not only about magic. It’s about having a coven. And I gave up my rights to a coven the first time I betrayed my family, turning them over to the Hunters to save my own skin.”_

“Then you can really see who’s a witch?”

Margaret smiled. _“As well as who’s not.”_

“Then why did you spare me?”

_“Because I’m curious to see how you’ll make the world burn.”_

Rowena frowned, but before she could say another word, a man crashed heavily through the brush.

“Oi, there! Little lass, did I give you a fright?” He tromped over to Rowena, who was trembling at his feet. He took her shivering as a sign of fright, unaware that she was furious at the interruption. “Aw, now, don’t look so shaken. The witch can’t do you no harm without her spells, and she won’t be saying them no more.”

“What do you mean?” Rowena asked. “Why not?”

“They cut her tongue out years ago. Long before I was a boy, even.” Rowena went pale, so he leaned down to ruffle her curls consolingly. “My apologies, little lady. I shouldn’t be telling girls such gruesome tales. Now, you’re the one who fell earlier, ain’t ya? What were you thinking, coming here?” He grinned and looked her over. “Wanted to prove to your friends what a brave, strong lass you are?”

“I am strong,” whispered Rowena.

The man laughed. “No doubt. But best you run along, ‘less you make your mother and father worry.”

That was true enough. Rowena imagined, from now on, her parents would be pretty uncomfortable whenever she was out of sight. After all, it’s generally unhealthy to take your eyes off a person after you attempt to have them killed. It puts them in an ill sort of mood.

_“And the breeze already stirs, the wax begins to weep. Stretch your wings, my little flame, and speed back to your keep.”_

Rowena turned and ran without another word, save the great witch's final echo in her mind:

_“You, Rowena, can live forever.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Lyrics are an English translation of [_All Turns to Yesterday,_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mm7EgiL900o) a song composed by Katharine Blake and performed by Mediæval Bæbes, based off of a poem from the [14th-century Vernon Manuscript.](http://english.stackexchange.com/questions/263898/what-was-the-archaic-source-of-all-turns-to-yesterday)


	5. Interim

So… remember when I told Samuel that Nadia created a code for her code because she was a selfish pig? That’s not entirely accurate. And by not entirely, I mean it was a complete lie. 

Sister Agnes, loon that she was, wasn't driven mad by visions alone. No, what pushed the dear off the deep end was realizing what a precarious balance upon which the world lies. You see, the truth is, so long as you can acquire the right ingredients and hold up a rudimentary recitation of Latin, anyone can cast these spells. Even you. 

Imagine being the one woman in the world who could see the universe’s rawest forms of evil, and knowing that at any time, the only thing that stands between Heaven and Hell is man’s better judgement. 

Now, personally, the thought of that kind of power tickles me in all the right places, but it drove Agnes mad. And I daresay it gave Nadia and the rest of the Grand Coven a scare, too, simpering, non-go-getters that they are. 

So, a code for a code wasn’t so much Nadia being selfish as it was her being tediously cautious against those like… well, me. 

And if that nerd and her technology cracks Nadia’s codex and figures that out, my value will dangerously deplete in Samuel’s eyes. Afterall, I did sell myself as the only witch alive who’d be able to decipher such old, dark magic. Therefore, nice as it would be to speed up the deciphering process, having the truth revealed is a risk I’m not willing to take.

I’m afraid I have to terminate my assistant. 


	6. Chapter 6

_“You know, the worst thing I can think of, the very worst thing,_ _is for my children to be raised into this like I was.”_

_—_ _Mary Winchester, 4.03, In the Beginning_

 

* * *

 

Great Witch of Balwearie or not, the famine persisted, and thousands more died. Including Rowena’s mother and father. She had returned late one evening to find them cold in their beds, her father tangled in his linens, her mother’s stare, vacant and glassy, watching her at the door.

_Brown_ , Rowena thought. _She had brown eyes. Like autumn leaves._

Rowena had nearly forgotten.

In the years since Margaret’s visit, things had changed in Rowena’s home. No longer was she chastised for wandering off into the forest, or chastised into her nightly prayers (though she dutifully attended congregations in the village). In fact, she wasn’t spoken to at all. She was a ghost at her mother’s hip, stepped around and turned away from, unseen, like a cold draft in the room. As for her father, he stayed longer on the fields, or the taverns when there were no crops to bear, returning only to eat or sleep.

Sometimes, Rowena was convinced she had really made herself invisible.

But then there were the starless nights, their small house so black Rowena couldn’t see her own fingers when waggled before her nose. Submerged in those shadows, she wondered if her mother and father were watching her. Waiting for her to drift off to sleep. Ready to kill her, if the opportunity arose.

And across the room, Isobel and Edan wondered if their daughter were waiting to do the same to them.

All that fear between the three, only to have death come calling for her parents at the whim of a cold. Seemingly harmless in average circumstances, a touch of a virus was deadly when the conditions were right.

Much like herself, Rowena had mused.

They were both buried on a third Monday, when the sky hung heavy with rain, returned to the earth alongside six others. No one cried for their lost ones. Tears took energy, and there was little to none to spare, not even for those in mourning.

Soon, drops began to fall, scattering those present, but while the rain extinguished the small gathering, Rowena was unmoved.

She sat long after the other funeral-goers had left, gazing at those who had fallen while she lived on. Only once did she wonder if she could have saved her mother and father, had they let her try. Finding her answer quickly, she never asked herself again.

Three years passed in peace.

In pleasant seasons, she managed to make the long travel to Edinburgh. To a village girl like herself, it seemed a wild, sprawling place, completely foreign to the lands in which she had woken every day since birth. There were streets where she couldn’t take a step without brushing shoulders with another, stacked tenements with dark, dirty faces that swallowed families whole. The lower classes were a stream within which the wealthy darted like small, sparkling fish. Rowena explored, dazzled by the fine fabrics decorating the women, the perfumed air that clung to their shoulders like gossamer. Looking into windows golden with firelight and wealth, her eyes glittered with self-discovery.

As it would turn out, farmer’s daughter or not, she was a young lady of expensive taste.

She had traveled to the city to seek an education, to steal what books she could concerning her craft from shops tucked into seedy alleyways. When she left Edinburgh, however, her most prized souvenir rested on her neck rather than in her bag.

Unknown to Rowena, the small treasure would be responsible for changing the fate of the world.

It all began when she wandered into a jewelry shop, tempted by the riches gleaming in the window.

“That’s far beyond your means, lass.”

Rowena, who had been staring greedily into an ornate case, rose with irritation. It was hard to say what bothered her more — that the merchant spoke the truth, or that he had already dismissed her from his thoughts, turning away to tinker with a pocketwatch.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked.

He snuffled at the interruption.

“I’ve no time for ya. Perhaps if you’re hiding something pretty under those rags, you can convince some drunkard from the taverns to buy you a treat.”

“Aye, I suppose I can.”

And she did.

Her victim, however, wasn’t some pig found stumbling from a pub. A young man, only a handful of years older than herself, he had a fine line to his jaw, a delicious fullness to his lips, that awakened a longing in Rowena that she didn’t know she possessed. Certainly, she had never experienced such a feeling among the men of her village.

One moment the lad was strolling in the day’s twilight, murmuring lines of study to himself, and in the next, he was madly in love.

Rowena could hardly tell you the finery of her spell if asked, the words as natural as breath on her lips. Like the hex bag she pressed into his palm, both spell and ingredients were born of instinct more than assured knowhow.

“Do you fancy me?” she asked, trying her best to sound lofty and confident, when on the inside, her heart was trying to climb its way out through her throat. This was her first time using magic on another person, after all, and it didn’t help that her target was worshiping her with eyes greener than the hills of Scotland.

“Aye,” he breathed, and leaned in for a kiss.

Rowena nearly tripped over herself.

“Here, now! What kind of girl do you take me for? You don’t think I’d give you a kiss as easy as that, do you?”

Truth be told, she wanted nothing more than to see if his mouth tasted as sweet as it looked, but Rowena was nothing if not focused when it came to chasing an objective.

“Now, perhaps if you were to court me properly…”

Rowena, elated, realized he was tethered to the rise and fall of her voice. The poor lad hung on every syllable, her rhythm a noose that he gladly accepted around his neck.

“Anything!” he promised. The desperate rasp in his vow made Rowena feel more alive than she had in years.

“Well, if it truly would please ya, there’s a small trinket that did catch my eye…”

Less than twenty minutes later, he rushed down the street in such haste that Rowena momentarily panicked, wondering if the pretty idiot had stolen the damn thing.

“I was afraid you’d be gone by the time I got back!” He eagerly thrust his gift forward. Dangling from his fist, a tiny jewel of ember twinkled from a filament of gold. “This, m’lady! This is the one, isn’t it?”

“Oh, aye, you’ve done good!” She reached out to take it, paused, reconsidering, and turned demurely away. “Why not make this a proper courting and put it on me yourself?”

Rowena swept her hair into a pile, smiling secretly at the way his breath hitched when she exposed the pale curve of her neck. It didn’t matter if what he felt for her was a lie; she thrilled at the delicate brush of his fingertips across her collarbone, at the thrum of his heart beating a swift rhythm against her back. As it turned out, love, even the pretend kind, was unnervingly warm.

Rowena’s mind wandered, wondering what his ashen hair might look like mussed between her fingers, or perhaps wild against a pillow in the morning light, but then he pulled her back to reality by nuzzling his lips along the shell of her ear. Without warning, an uncontrollable giggle bubbled up from her chest.

“M’lady?” He turned her in his arms, watching her laughing mouth as if it held the world’s greatest mystery.

Rowena placed one hand lightly on his chest, the other trying to hide her heated cheeks as she fought to control her laughter.

This was far too easy. Easier than she had ever expected. And while it was undeniably fun to have this man at her beck and whim, now that the task was done, she didn’t much care for the idea of forcing him to love her. Or even to lust for her. Rowena possessed far too much pride for that. There would come a day, she was positive, when she’d earn herself wealth and power, the kind that would turn the heads of men and women alike. Spells wouldn’t be needed. Her own charm — the type not of the magic sort — would be more than enough.

But...

He watched her, confused, and wet his lips; it was a nervous habit of his.

“Was it something I did…?”

“Ah, what the hell,” she replied. Standing on tiptoe, she caught his face and claimed his mouth with her own.

She tackled her first kiss as she tackled all her firsts — with a confidence and determination that left no room for second guesses. He answered her in kind, and if the soft rumble in his throat was any indication, her enthusiasm was appreciated.

It was only meant to last a second, but Rowena didn’t remember herself until his teeth nipped at the hollow of her neck.

“Ahh! Well, mm.” Stumbling back a pace, she licked her lips. She had expected him to taste like expensive wine, but his tongue had left the dry flavor of ale in her mouth. Rowena restrained the urge to bounce gleefully on her heels. She felt flushed from head to toe, but it was nothing compared to the wounded look on the boy’s face. Consolingly, she gave him a friendly pat on the cheek. “That was just bonnie. But I’m afraid now’s not the time for this.”

“Wait, what? You’re leaving? You can’t!”

“Can’t?” Rowena arched a brow. “I most certainly can. And I will. And you won’t follow after me. In fact, you won’t remember having ever met me as soon as I’m out of your sight. Do you understand, Mr… um..”

“Campbell! Liam Campbell.” He practically choked on his own name, offering it with an unabashed desperation, as if it were a tribute that could convince her to remain with him.

Rowena bit the inside of her cheek to keep her grin in check.

“Well, Mr. Campbell, it was certainly a pleasure. Perhaps someday we can continue. But for now...”

She left him drooling in the streets, and sincerely thought that was that. The inexperienced witch had no idea that the young Iad, unable to handle the magic’s hold on him, would die, bleeding and convulsing, less than an hour later. Or that his family, brokenhearted and vengeful, would follow rumor of what had transpired and begin seeking information on the supernatural.

The Campbells’ curiosity wouldn’t be the only one piqued, however. News traveled fast in those tight communities, and the witch population was no exception. Particularly when it came to murmurs of crazed lads whose eyes bled in their death throes.

“Do we have any idea who might have been casting spells so stupidly in public?” Olivette sunk her nail into the soft lacquer of her chair. Britain’s painful season of witch hunting was finally nearing an end, and the last thing her kind needed was some amateur casting spells whenever the fancy struck her.

“We believe her name is Rowena,” replied another witch, relieved that she could provide an answer to the High Priestess. “She matches the description given by Margaret, and was seen returning to the village we have marked in our logs.”

“Ah, one of Margaret’s finds, you say?” Olivette didn’t sound pleased.

The blind witch had, ironically, been the coven’s eyes when travel was too dangerous, but in her final decades, Margaret’s use had been limited, far as Olivette was concerned. Natural witches were less common with every passing year, thanks to the hysteria that had burned across the continent over the last century. Too many of their kind had been lost, and those who remained were often faltering students or those who earned their magic through deals with demons. Neither were ideal recruits. The former often amounted to a waste of effort, and the latter had an unfortunate tendency to meet sudden and tragic endings.

If there was a natural witch out there who had reached maturity without guidance, she’d be dangerous.

“Why did we not look into this Rowena sooner?” Olivette snapped.

Her subordinate cowered. Witch-on-witch killings were forbidden, but Olivette could be very creative in her punishments when inspired. “Margaret reported on her shortly before her death. You know how she was in those final weeks. She’d claim the town mule was a warlock if given the chance. Once, she did.”

Olivette waved her hand before the other could continue. “Enough. Discussing this doesn’t change a thing. We need to find this young woman, instruct her, teach her some control. Our new sister must be invited immediately into our folds. Goddess knows we’re in need of some fresh blood in this place.”

As others discussed her future, Rowena lay in the back of a wagon, not even caring that she had to share the straw with vegetables nearly gone to rot. She was blissfully enjoying the sun on her face and the sparkle of the pendant on her neck. She held it gently to the light, loving the smooth roll of gold between her fingertips.

“You, my pretty thing, are the first proof of my power. I think, to mark the occasion, I should give you a little something special. Just a tiny enchantment.” Rowena grinned. “A charm that could charm would be clever, don’t you think?”


	7. Interim

I know what you’re thinking: How stupid does Samuel have to be to give me his trust?

I mean, for pity's sake, how many years have these Winchesters been in the business? You’d think they’d know better than to make deals with the enemy.

But I’ll let you in on a secret — the boy’s not entirely to blame.

You see, I have a little charm on my side. In the physical sense. Nothing too flashy or glamorous, just a small ornament that’s been enchanted with the power of persuasion. It can’t control a person. It can’t even change their mind, if they really don’t want it to be changed.

It only has enough power to… oh, I don’t know…

Compel my son’s lackey to hand me one of the most dangerous weapons in the world. 

Or to convince a jaded child-turned-king to regain a touch of faith in his mother.

Or, as you’ll see, the power to seed a few questionable ideas in the mind of what appears to be — Winchester loyalty aside — an otherwise sensible girl.

But, oops! I’m letting my mouth get ahead of me. Too much foreplay can rush the climax, no?


	8. Chapter 8

_ "So the devil may care after all." _

—  _Dean Winchester, 3.09, Malleus Maleficarum_

* * *

  
Embracing a brush fire would be easier than controlling the blaze that was Rowena.  A quick learner, she needed precious little in the way of guidance. The magic was rich among the coven, as ready as air. Joining them, Rowena felt as if she had been pulled to surface after years of drowning, and from here, she could finally breath on her own. And like any flame allowed to breathe, she grew stronger, wilder. A match to kindling, she devoured the knowledge opened to her with an appetite that knew no such thing as limitations. 

Some of the others loved her, most envied her. 

And everyone feared her, though Rowena would honestly be surprised to hear it. 

This was a proper kind of family, afterall. The sisters and brothers for whom she had waited her entire life. Oh, sure, certain people could be a little on the bossy side — maybe even overbearing, Rowena would dare to say — but every family had its windbags. In the end, they were all one and the same. They might not always hold hands and sing songs naked together in the moonlight, but ultimately, they protected one another, and for the first time in all her years, she slept sweet and safely. 

Rowena no longer feared any man, nor respected any limits.

Rules, whether created by man or by God, existed purely for mortals. Never for the likes of them. 

Case in point — she was currently sieving a milky, cornflower blue liquid into a tiny vial. Mother Nature be damned, Rowena had no plans of bringing back any souvenirs from tonight’s big event. The potion she had just mixed was a tried and true formula, just what any girl needed before a good solstice orgy.

“Everyone’s talking about you, you know,” cheerfully spoke a girl who watched Rowena at work.

Alycie, at the age of 17, was several years younger than Rowena, but she had been taught and raised in the craft since the age of four. As such, she was often assigned “babysitting” duties when it came to the redhead. It would be insufferable if not for Alycie’s unassuming nature. The girl doted on Rowena, lingered on her stories, always laughed along with her jokes. And though Rowena wouldn’t admit as much aloud, the truth was, during her years of study within the coven, she had somehow come to consider Alycie as more than a sister, but a friend.

“Talking about me? Why on earth would they do that?” 

“Stop looking so pleased. Ain’t nothing good they’re saying. It’s all gossip about that trick you pulled on the sassenach. You know the one — hairy brute wandering in from Gloucester? Thought because he looked like a bear he had the right to paw at every woman who passed?” 

“Trick?” Rowena asked, eyes comically wide. “You mean that little spell I prepared for his—” She cleared her throat and twirled a finger below her waistline.

“Aye, that one. The bastard had it coming, but Olivette is furious with you! You know we’re not supposed to be that … messy … with our magic.”

“He wanted me to try to increase his assets, and kind soul that I am, who was I to turn him away?”

Alycie raised a brow.

“Well it’s not as if I meant for it to explode!” Rowena sniffed, eyes rolling. “All things come with sacrifice, including knowledge. We’re in a period of enlightenment, are we not? How will we keep up with the common folk if we don’t experiment from time to time?”

“Mm hm.” Alycie pointed at Rowena’s vial, now filled and corked, resting on the table. “Which is why I’m sure you’ll devote your evening to your studies, no doubt.”

Rowena grinned. “I’m a witch, not a eunuch. Tonight I’m going to devote myself to a proper fucking till my lungs give out.”

Their laughter rang in the hall until a very distinct click of heels clipped their joy short. Rowena might have considered the blonde who entered beautiful, if not afflicted with what she enjoyed calling “a broom handle permanently up her pucker.” Several years the girls’ senior, the woman was frowning at them both with the practiced disapproval of a schoolteacher.

“Alycie. Rowena. Aren’t you supposed to be assisting Hesther with sorting the medicinal herbs?”

Alycie started fidgeting with her hair, snapping the curls at her shoulder, but Rowena only rolled her eyes.

“What,  _ now _ ? Honestly, Olivette,” Rowena groaned. “Can’t Hesther figure out how to stick Plant A into Cupboard B without someone holding her hand?”

Olivette inwardly counted to ten. There once was a time when she’d have scolded Rowena, but that had produced failed results, time and time again. Forced to change tactics, she instead tried to chastise the girl by sentencing her to punishments worthy of the impertinent or disobedient; however, these only fanned Rowena’s rebellious streak. Rowena never spoke of her time before the coven, but whatever had transpired in the home of her parents had formed her into a creature Olivette had little hope of handling.

These days, with growing distaste, she was forced to turn to toadied sweet talk to tame the redhead. 

“Rowena, you come here, use our lore, our supplies, but think you don’t have to contribute? We all have our responsibilities, even the most talented of us.”

Rowena was well aware the slip of flattery was just Olivette’s way of getting her to obey, but that was fine. Rowena enjoyed it all the same.

“Fine, then. I’ll help Hesther, if it pleases ya,” she conceded, tipping her chin. With a swish of her skirts, she stood and looped Alycie’s arm within her own. “Come on, Alycie. You don’t want to let me out of your sight. I might run off to play rather than keep to my chores.”

“Rowena. Aren’t you forgetting something?” Olivette called.

Rowena turned back to see Olivette tapping her finger on the table, drawing attention to the blue vial.

“Ah, of course!” She retrieved the potion and pocketed it with a wink. “Thank you very much! Be a crime to let a figure like mine go to waste just yet, eh?”  

Olivette didn’t return Rowena’s good cheer. “A crime would be you carrying a commoner’s child. You may not have been here as long as the rest of us, but you should still understand how desperate our numbers are. We need children to whom the gift is passed. Anything less is a waste of resources.”

A cattish grin lifted Rowena’s lips.

“Ooh, Olli, don’t act like I didn’t spot you with that strapping baker’s boy at the summer solstice,” she cooed, nudging the woman with her elbow. “That weren’t no magical bun he was trying to put in your ov—”

“Rowena.”

“Aye, aye. We’re going.” She elevated her voice enough to be sure that the High Priestess could hear her as they took their leave. “Maybe if we’re extra helpful, Hesther will show us where she keeps Olli’s favorite chardonnay.” 

*****

 

The problem with having such a small magical community was that if you’d been to one winter solstice orgy, you’d been to them all. Despite a perfect evening, with a moon that blazed bright as the sun and feathers of snow that kept commoners tucked away in their homes, Rowena felt the affair was … lacking.

While the others warmed themselves with drink or the embrace of another, she stood in the glow of the fire, her fingers at play with the charm on her neck. It was a disappointment, after her earlier enthusiasm, to be cloaked in a sense of disatisfaction, but the faces that met her’s through smoke and shadow left her empty. 

_ No one new,  _ she lamented.  _ You’d think an obligation-free night of indulgence would be more attractive to people.  _

Across the small glade, a familiar laugh sounded. Rowena glanced up to see Alycie standing at the perimeter of the fires, shirt pooled at her hips, and two companions leisurely relieving her of the rest. She caught Rowena’s eye and beckoned her over, but Rowena shook her head.

“You won’t be able to walk for a week if you play with that one,” Rowena called to the trio.

“Don’t worry, Rowena,” one of Alycie’s playmates shouted back. “We’ll be gentle with her.”

Rowena chuffed. “Weren’t her I was warning.”

It put a telling smile on Alycie’s face. 

This was the usual mix of personalities resulting from an evening of too much wine and chanting. Rowena had them all sorted out.

There were the exhibitionists, happy to clamber onto the large stone in the center of the gathering, all flailing arms and wailing voices, supposedly in the name of one Goddess or another, though Rowena was fairly certain they just wanted to show off their flexibility.

Then there were the group huggers — the more the merrier type. Twenty minutes with that lot, and you hardly knew who was sticking what in whom.

And finally, the lovers. Sometimes they stayed out among the group, but more often they moved into the quiet shadows of the woods, creating small, private worlds privy to their eyes alone.

Tonight, these were the people spoiling Rowena’s festivities.

Feeling not quite envy, not quite loss, she spied them as she passed through the thicket, the cords of her heart pulled taut with what might best be described as wonder. The pairs seemed to speak with a language foreign to outsiders. A brush of lashes against a breast, a nose nuzzled to a hip — each was a promise made without saying a word. She heard whispered sighs and tried to remember if she ever made such a sound herself.

What the couples shared seemed a strange and dangerous thing, like falling in love with a dream. But there was a kind of strength in their intimacy, too. One's heart was the most vulnerable of secrets, and to lay it bare, even for a single night, seemed either magnificently daring or alarmingly stupid.

Rowena chewed at her lip and moved away from the gathering. She couldn’t figure out what the couples gained from their affection that made it worth the hurt that would follow.  And yet, like with any elusive spell that escaped her grasp, she chased the question doggedly, yearning to understand whether or not such love was worth the risk involved.

“You’ve got to be the only woman in history who’s come to an orgy to philosophize rather than fuck.”

Rowena twisted on her heel and found a man watching her from where he leaned against a gnarled oak.

“Excuse me?” Her pitch too high, she swallowed and tried again. “And what of you? You’ve got to be the only man here who’s after a conversation rather than a cunt.” She pointedly looked him over, then shrugged her shoulder. “Or a cock. To each his own. I don’t judge.”

“Don’t take such offense. I only meant you seemed deep in thought. It’s not a common practice at these events.”

A retort staled on her tongue as she squinted into the darkness. Whoever this was, he was a stranger. Even with his face obscured by the shadowy drapes of the trees, Rowena knew she had never met him before. 

He was taller than she, which was common enough, but there was a lean strength to him uncharacteristic of the warlocks she knew. The coven males only exercised the pathetic grey mass between their ears, but this man was built for long hours in the field, or perhaps days filled with welding and ore.

He grinned at the silence hanging between them, making Rowena start. She hadn’t meant to be so obvious with her gawking.

“Who are you here with? You’re not any warlock I know. Are you of the old religion?” she asked.

“Are you shy?” He advanced a step, but Rowena didn’t move. Beneath the suave smile and warm roll of his accent, there was a feral edge; she could see it in the hungry gleam of his eyes.

It was a dangerous thing to run from a predator.

“If you’re looking to woo a lady, you’d do best not to ignore her questions.” Rowena’s hand moved with clear intent toward her hip. Magic might be her weapon of choice, but no woman with a lick of sense left home without a blade.

But though she was obvious in her warning, he continued to advance, one bold step after the next, until only inches stood between them. Dark hair and early frost eyes, he was the kind of lad anyone would be glad to welcome over their hearth at the start of a new year, but Rowena wasn’t counting her blessings just yet. 

“I didn’t think these gatherings were meant for talking.” Heedless of her weapon, he cupped her face in one broad hand and began tracing the line of her lip with his thumb. “And besides...”

Oily blackness filled the white space of his eyes, like ink spilled on parchment.

“...I’m not here to ‘woo’ any ladies.”

“You're a demon!” she exclaimed, but she didn’t pull herself away.

His nostrils flared, scenting the air between them.

“And you're drunk.”

Rowena laughed, though the sound was forced, even to her own ears. “I might have indulged in a toast or two before coming out here, but you’ve got a nasty surprise coming if you think I’m out of my wits.” She stared into those endless eyes, too fascinated, and admittedly thrilled, to remember all the nightmarish stories she’d been told about his kind. “Besides. Ain’t a lady in Scotland who can’t hold her drink better than the likes of you.”

He joined her in laughing, though his was far more sincere. The sound made her think of the spoonfuls of dark, thick sugar she had snitched from her mother’s cupboards as a child.

“Is that so?” he goaded. “Then if you’re sober, why aren’t you running away? That’d be the sensible thing to do, if you knew what was good for you.” That starlit smile returned as he slipped his hand behind her waist, his fingertips stroking slow, practiced patterns along the ridge of her spine. “Unless, of course, you’re wanting me to share some of my power with you.”

He expected Rowena to go pale at the proposition. Maybe push him away. With humans, it was always difficult to predict how they’d react. They had a natural fear of demons, but it was amazing how often their greed overcame instinct.

But she only let out a sharp whip of a laugh.

“Power? What, from you?” Rowena’s scorn danced in her humor. “I’ve no need for yours! I’ve got plenty of my own!”

He almost made a joke, but her show of confidence had him think better of it. If she had already contracted with a demon, he’d recognize her. And a student wouldn’t boast like that, which left only one possibility.

“You’re a Natural, then…?”

Rowena ducked from his touch and curtsied, her smile all the more pleased at his shock.

“Aye. You seem surprised.”

“Indeed I am. I’m sure you’ve heard your kind are rare. Especially these days.”

“Is that why you’re here? Looking for some poor lad or lass in need of a magical hand-me-out?” 

He cocked a brow, either amused or offended. Rowena had a knack of producing both results, sometimes simultaneously.

“Would-be witches and warlocks aren’t the only contracts I make at these kinds of events,” he replied, drawing another snicker from the girl.

“What do you do? Wander about, looking for men who are ready to sell their soul for a few extra inches?”

“You’d be surprised how often that’s the case.”

“Ahh. Is that what you traded yours for?” 

“I’ve always been more than adequately equipped. Both then and now. Do you always poke at things that can bite?”

Somewhere deep, deep in the back of Rowena’s mind, she heard a little echo of warning. It was probably a memory of one of Olivette’s numbing lectures, or maybe a recollection of sweet Alycie, ever trying to be the voice of reason when Rowena got a reckless notion in her head.

And right now, Rowena had a singular desire to entertain her most dangerous idea yet. 

“Is that so?” She met his hooded stare without pretense. She could play coy when the occasion called for it, but it wasn’t in her nature. And judging by the lazy, sloping smile turning his lip, it wasn’t in his, either. “And I don’t suppose it still… works, does it?”  

“I’m a demon, not a corpse.” 

Rowena nearly bounced on the balls of her feet. Love— love was an enigma. But this? This was a game of power, and she never turned down a good match.

Oh, how the members of her coven loved to scare one another with stories of bargains with the Devil, so to speak. Given the risks involved, it was the least desirable method of attaining magic, but many a man and woman succumbed to the temptation. Rarely did they meet happy endings for their gamble, however. Demons did not share their blessings for free.

“Is it true you seal deals with a kiss?” she asked quickly, eager to get the question out before common sense could catch up to her plan.

“Why? Can it be the all powerful Natural has something she can’t achieve on her own?”

“Pfft, hardly. I was just wondering if you were any good at it, given all the practice you must get.”

What felt like hours passed before he stepped toward her. She wiggled her toes in the dirt at his languid steps, envious of his patience. It didn’t occur to her that this might be her last opportunity to run, assuming he’d allow her to. All that mattered was the distance closed between them, and then his hands trailing her sides, and then the ghost of his tongue on her mouth.

Rowena, eyes closed, breathlessly parted her lips. When a minute passed and she still hadn’t experienced her first kiss with a demon, she chanced a peek at him. 

The jackass hadn’t moved an inch; he was simply smiling, watching her reaction. To his amusement, Rowena gasped and jerked back, burning red from chest to nose.

“Bloody hell!” she snapped. He lowered his head, chuckling against her neck while she gave him a solid verbal lashing. “Is this your idea of fun, teasing a lady? Demon or no, if you think I’m going to wait around here all night, when I can go elsewhere to get a perfectly good piece of a— now where do you think you’re going?” 

Blue eyes smiled up at her through ruffled bangs before eclipsing to black.

“You asked for a kiss,” he purred, the grass settling beneath his knees.  

“Oh,” Rowena breathed.

*****

 

Life was good. Toe curling, spine arching, tremble all over kind of good.  

She knew he was close when his hands tightened on her hips, fingers grasping urgently, staining fresh bruises over those left twice before. The lovers may have been brave for baring their souls, but in this moment, Rowena felt pretty damn daring herself. 

He was powerful and wild and dark, unexplored and dangerous waters, but she was the storm that moved him. All that power, and it was under her control with the smallest rise and fall of her hips. She’d laugh if she could catch her breath.

Above them, the stars began to die, dawn on the rise, so she moved faster to race it to completion.  He growled and swelled, and she leaned forward, tearing the world from him, burning it away with the curtain of her hair and her nearly insufferable heat around him.

“Let me see your eyes. The other ones. I want to see the real you.”  

His lips peeled back in either grin or snarl, she couldn’t care less which. On her command, the blue of his gaze chilled and darkened, black ice stretched thin over fathomless depths. After a moment, his eyes left her face to move over her skin, greedily licking at pale perfection, their touch far more scorching than any caress. It felt so good, so much better than anything experienced before. Pleasure was, perhaps, the only thing Rowena would ever truly submit to, and so she gave herself to the coil building within. It broke and unraveled with her cry, leaving him to chase relentlessly after his own release, until both were left panting and shuddering against the other.

“Rowena!” 

If there was an ounce of strength left in her, she had no mind to find it. Instead, she turned to the voice with all the lazy disinterest of a housecat. 

“Ah, Alycie. You’re energetic. Did your partners disappoint?” Rowena drawled.

“Rowena, we have to go! Now! It’s almost morning, and some townsfolk were seen riding in this direction!”

“Mm, well, you’ll just have to tell them they’re too late. I’ve had my fill of fun for the evening.”

The demon laughed against her breast. Rowena noted his eyes had returned to blue, but Alycie’s face was sheeted white. It was too late. She had already seen what he was, and there’d be no calming her now.

“Rowena!”

“All right! I hear ya!” 

She winced as she pulled herself from his lap, but it was all the right kinds of aches. And given the bliss on her partner’s face, he suffered the same. Yes,  _ definitely _ worth a few bruises. While gathering her clothes, from the corner of her eye, Rowena noticed Alycie had turned aside. Like a thorn, the girl’s judgement pricked Rowena’s bubble of contentment. All’s well that ends well, and Rowena felt fucking fantastic. Alycie would just have to get over her anti-demon bigotry.

“So,” Rowena began to her lover, once her dress was in place. “Should we tell one another our names, or do you prefer to stay a myst—”

But he was gone.

“Come on!” Alycie pleaded, grabbing her friend’s hand.

She didn’t have to beg. Without another glance back, Rowena fell into pace beside her.

Rowena smiled as they ran, feeling only joy, and none the loss. Her only regret was that the next winter solstice would have a lot to live up to if ever to compare with this night.


	9. Interim

People rely entirely too much on materialistic safeguards. Put a gun in a man’s hand, or iron on a witch, and cautions lapse. Why, just after her arrival, Charlie was lecturing Samuel on the dangers of some Styne Family. Apparently, they’re eager to get their hands on the book, and they blame Ms. Bradbury for its loss. A seemingly harmless tidbit to share around yours truly, but it provided me with the start of a plan. 

As did the bones Samuel so generously supplied from my grocery list.

For three days now, while the nerd’s played with her technology, I’ve been doing my own variety of research. I was upfront about using the bones to read the signs that nature shows me. It’s not my fault no one’s paused to inquire  _ what _ signs I’ve been reading, exactly.

To be more clear: Divination, when done right, can reveal far more than any family photo album. And our sweet girl, it would seem, has lived quite the life. Oh, the details are fuzzy, but I’ve learned enough. The right words can be dispensed like poison.

_ “... Let me tell you about you …” _

_ “... Living in your own head for solace and direction …” _

_ “... That steadfast loyalty will be your undoing, my girl …” _

I feed her dreck like this for hours, day after day, spoonful after spoonful, until her blood is bubbling and my voice rattles about her brain like change in a pocket. She’s pulled the angel aside twice, no doubt to complain, but that only works to my advantage. I need them both desperate if I’m to be successful.

And now, my efforts are about to pay off.

“Let me focus!” Charlie suddenly shrieks.

If I did, that would defeat the whole point. And so I retort with gusto, “The greatest witches of history have sought my counsel! And yet you spurn me when I offer myself as a collaborator!”

Nearby, Castiel slams the door. He has his phone in hand, which means I’ve got a few minutes alone with her. Now’s the time for the coup de grâce. 

“I can see why you're fidgety, Charlie.”

She wants to ignore me, but I don’t allow it. My chains may be short, but they’re enough to let me get well and truly in her face.

“The last time you sat in one place, twiddling your thumbs... well, that didn't end too well for your loved ones, did it? There you were, feeling alone, helpless, frightened — but you came out right as rain, no? Dear mum and dad, on the other hand... ”

Ah, that got her. It looks like the lass, for all her chirp and quirk, is ready to reveal her darker side.

“And now it looks like the same fate is awaiting your  _ brother _ .” I roll my eyes as I say it, as her own glare bores into me. “Well, not the same fate, exactly. Dean won’t be  _ dead _ dead, of course. Just dead in the sense you know him. What’s left of him will go on happily enough, laughing as he murders you and everyone you’ve ever cared abo—”

“What’s your game, Rowena?” Charlie hisses.

Ha! She might be fighting a losing battle, but she’s a bright girl, all the same. Such a shame this might not end in her favor.

“Let me speak plain,” I say, lowering my voice. Castiel is still blabbing away, but at this point, it won’t do to take chances. “I don’t want you here, and you don’t want to be here. Neither of us care for one another’s methods. Now, I obviously can’t leave, or I’d be the first to volunteer. But you, on the other hand.” I finger my charm absentmindedly, feeling it warm against my skin. “I could distract Castiel long enough for you to get away. I heard you say it to him before. You only need a few hours.”

Every fiber of her being is screaming at her not to listen to me, but her nerves are frayed from my days of tormenting her. She knows better than to trust me, but at the same time, the clock’s she’s a’ticking.

“Why would you help me?” she asks. 

“Help you?” I snort. “Don’t fool yourself. Personally, I hope you don’t come back. To be frank, with you about, it makes them rely on me less. I’m not so trusting as to think they’ll let me frolic off into the sunset once this business is over.  _ I _ need to be the one to break the codex and read the book. This way, when the world goes to hell as a result of lifting the curse — and I promise you, something very bad will happen — I won’t be expendable.”

“And so, what? You’re sending me out there to die?” 

Her voice is full of accusation, but she keeps it soft enough that the angel can’t hear us. She’s taken the bait. 

_ Check. _

“It’s not as if there’s any guarantee that you’ll die out there, is there? But this I  _ can _ promise — if you stay in here, I’ll make certain Dean Winchester is lost.”

“...”

“No need to fight the urge, dear. Leaving is what you want, too, now isn’t it?”

I admit, I don’t enjoy how her brow crumples at this point. Nor the tears of frustration that come to her eyes. In different times, under different circumstances, she might have been the kind of girl I’d like. But in this world, it’s every lady for herself.

“If you’d just be quiet, only for a few hours, I swear—” she begins to plead, but I despise begging. 

“Not a chance. Sorry, my girl, but all’s fair in love and business. ”

She tries to stiffen up, to regain control, but we both know where things are headed. “If I told Cas all of this, he would—

“Would what? Give me a good spanking?” I grin. “Have you seen his hands? Might be a decent way to pass the time. That is, unless, you intend to be the one to torture me. You’ve had some experience with that sort of thing.”

She goes pale at that, but before I can massage the wound, our privacy is lost.

“Is everything alright out here?” 

Charlie jumps as Castiel steps down the stairs, but I merely waggle my fingers in hello.

“We’re just having a bit of girl talk,” I say.

He frowns at the way Charlie won’t meet his eye.

“Well, less talk, and more work. We’re running out of time.”

“Right you are, Warden.” With my back to the angel, I wink knowingly at Charlie and return dutifully to my seat.

It’s not much later that I’m back at her side, but this time it’s to discuss rather than to distract. For the first time since we’ve been introduced, we’re actually working together. Just not in the way Samuel had intended.

When we part — me back to my desk, and her to Castiel — I catch a glimpse of an address on her laptop before she can shut it to my prying eyes. 

The Blackbird Hotel. 

_ Checkmate.  _


	10. Chapter 10

_ “Don't get me started about the name — Fergus. Sounds like a venereal disease, and not the fun kind.” _

—  _ _Crowley, 10.09, The Things We Left Behind__

 

* * *

 

“Those old hags!” 

Rowena’s parcels clattered to the floor, missing the table by several inches. Beneath her bare foot an eggshell shattered, but she didn’t notice the yolk squishing under her sole.

Sure, her monthly bleeding might have been a little irregular as of late, but not by much. How much time could have passed since her last? Five weeks? Six? But didn’t she spot a little the other day? Rowena clutched her abdomen and felt nothing, tried to mark the passage of time in her head and found the days blurred together. 

What could those village women possibly know, anyway?

“With child,” they had whispered as she passed, their faces lit gleefully with the prospect of fresh gossip.

Outside, a lark trilled the closing of another day. Rowena grabbed a bowl from the table, the one still filled with her morning porridge, crossed to the threshold, and pitched it at the little beast. Stone shattered, feathers flew, and the bird’s song dissolved into an angry squabble as it took flight. 

_ Yeah? To hell with you, too _ , she thought.

Across the road, a passing herder observed with disapproval. Rowena shot him a particular gesture, took a small measure of satisfaction in the shock on his face, and fled back into her home.

She hated this place. Hated these walls. Why had she ever stayed here?

“Not married,” they had whispered in scornful tones, but their smiles belied their disapproval. 

Rowena paced, muttering venomously. “They don’t know me. They don’t know their arse from a hole in the ground.”

_ And yet…  _

She began nibbling on a nail that was already chewed to a nub.

Although she was loathe to admit it, despite her talents, Rowena realized she was ultimately human. On her journey through life, mistakes were bound to happen.

Like her occasional misjudgment of how much liquor she could hold.

Or those few fire scares when first learning to cook. ( _ Who ever thought straw thatch roofs were a good idea, anyway? _ )

And the now-and-then experiment which caused an otherwise contented volunteer to lose an appendage. Or a few memories. Or the ability to count past four.

But one thing at which she had never failed was the creation of a  _ fan-fucking-tastic _ contraceptive potion.

The rest of the eggs avalanched to the floor with a swipe of her arm.

No, the women of the village were wrong. Women who turned their cheeks every time she crossed their path could hardly know Rowena so well as to see what she, herself, had not. The next time they dared whisper their lies, she’d cast a spell that would shrivel their saggy—

Rowena’s daydream of vengeance suddenly turned to acid in her stomach. What little she had eaten that morning frantically crawled up her throat, scalding hot. She slipped across the eggs as she fled to the corner of the room, where a clay pot sat waiting. 

She had thrown up in it every morning for the last week.

*****

 

“You can’t blame me for this,” Rowena announced.

Time was the most lethal reaper of lies.

In her palm rested a small, clear bottle. Its contents were dark, bleeding against the glass as she spun it in the glow of the hearth, slow and dreamlike. Just looking at its treacle crawl made her stomach twist. 

And speaking of stomachs, her traitorous flesh had begun to extend. The bump was hardly visible when she wore her plaids, but every evening she stood before a mirror, running her hands over her hips, staring defiantly at each growing swell and curve, trying to mold herself back into shape.

“You’re selfish if you expect me to stand for this. Sacrifices are only worth it if you’ve got something to gain, and all you stand to do is make me lose everything.” 

Her heart pattered in her chest, and unbidden, she imagined the beating of small fists against her ribs. Nonsense, of course. Whatever was in there couldn’t possibly know any better. Why, what she planned would be an act of mercy, when all was said and done. 

“What if you’re born with a tail? Or horns? Or two heads?” she argued. “You think that would make life easy for you? Because I’m telling you now, this world’s none too kind to those who are different. Who knows what happens when you have a demon for a father?”

That last part was a sad truth — because who did know? Certainly not Rowena. She had pored over books, slyly touched upon the subject with her sisters in the coven, but none were of use. It appeared most people chose to bargain with demons rather than fuck them. Far as Rowena could tell, she might be the first woman to be impregnated by one of the damn things and lived to tell the tale.

Now, there was something to be famous for. Wasn’t it bonnie to be special.

“Believe me, you wouldn’t want me as a mother anyway. I had a terrible example to learn by.” 

Rowena’s voice held steady, completely contrary to the violent shaking of her hands. 

She had made this brew in a panic, on hands and knees in the forest she loved so well, scraping at the earth like a thief, fearful of her intentions being exposed. Her hands still bled from where she had cut herself grinding down the necessary roots with pestle and mortar. Everything had been carried out in a blind hysteria, and it was only now, with the bottle so close to her lips, that the heavy permanence of her decision touched her senses.

“If I bring you into this world, you’ll hate me.” The potion had a pungent, earthy scent that made her think of spoiled leaves. “I won’t let my own blood hate me. Not again. Never again.”

_ Do it _ , she told herself.

_ Don’t _ , another part warned. 

Safety was in power. Power was in control. And both had somehow been robbed from her by a life too weak to exist without her consent.

The bottle fell from her fingers, its contents bleeding out on the floor, and for the first time since she was a child, Rowena sobbed.

*****

 

“There’s a reason you don’t see hear our halls echoing with the cries of whelps and the groans of bloated women,” Olivette admonished. “There is an order to this. A  _ sanctity _ . We do not allow ourselves to become pregnant by accident!”

It had been like this from the moment Rowena had presented herself. In summary:

_ You can stop gawking at me, Olivette _ .  _ I’d say my figure could still give yours a run for your money _ , Rowena cheerfully announced.

_ Why have you waited to get rid of it? _ Olivette returned.

_ And why would you think I’d get rid of my own flesh and blood?  _ Rowena answered, still perky, still flippant, still in the game. At this point, they were the only two in the room, and it was easy to slip into this traditional cat-and-dog bickering between them.

_ You always have to be so predictably difficult, Rowena, _ Olivette snapped. And at that last part, although the slash of the blonde’s lips never moved, Rowena was certain the woman was smiling. Taking pleasure from her predicament. Perhaps thrilled that Rowena’s magic had failed her, envious bitch that she was.

And so it had continued, with each passing minute drawing another member of their coven into the room. At first Rowena was irritated, bristling at the idea of an audience to her humility, but as they each took their places, faces twisted in candlelight, a jury of flickering flames, she was struck cold by the sensation of being caged within their shadows.

The worst part was when Alycie trudged in to join them. Not once did she raise her eyes from the floor.

Rowena’s face crumpled, her pain there and gone in a blink, before she could slip a mask of indifference back into place.

In the early days, standing in the circle of her coven, she had always felt bright and brilliant, a dazzling star in a sea of constellations. But tonight, isolation pressed close. If she were a star, she was a dying one, about to be smothered by an unforgiving universe.

“What makes you think the father was of non-magic?” Rowena began, but she stopped midway. Never one to miss a tell, she spotted Alycie in the crowd, spinning a curl around her finger with such determination that Rowena thought it might snap. Realization dawned, and the baby within her kicked, alarmed by the quickening of his mother’s heart. 

She supposed she should be grateful that Alycie had at least kept quiet about the constitution of the father. If the coven responded this badly to word of a baby fathered by an average human, she had no interest in seeing how they’d take to the news of a demon spawn.

“Nevermind,” Rowena snapped. “It doesn’t matter. I haven’t seen the man in nearly seven months. Haven’t even wasted a thought on him.”

Olivette adopted a wounded expression, brow puckered. Rowena hoped she’d give herself wrinkles.

“And what about us?” Olivette asked. “Did you never stop to think of us? For centuries we have been hunted, our numbers torn down to nothing! You were a sheltered child, and have no idea the extent to which our kind has suffered. And we will continue to suffer, to deplete, if we do not abide by our rules! Rules that were created for the protection of us all!”

“Oh, pluck the broomstick from up your arse, Olivette.” Rowena snarled. “I’m having a baby, not a god. If you think one wee baird makes any difference—”

“A single child can make all the difference. It is years of your time, your resources, your magic gone to waste. You give life to a worthless mortal when it is a gift you should be bestowing upon a witch. ”

“Worthless?” Rowena intended to stay cool and nonplussed by the old nag, but a lady could only take so much insult. “As if any life  _ I _ create could possibly be worthless!”

Olivette controlled herself well enough, but the growing tension was nearly tangible. The energy of both women filled the air, twin stones ready to set a spark. Around them, some exchanged wary glances, while others grew tight and poised.

“Your life is our life, Rowena. You will not waste eternity on some pathetic human—”

“Maybe it’s you’re afraid, is that it?” Rowena cut in, turning the vinegar in her stomach to sugary sweet tones.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, you’re not fooling anyone, Ollie. You’ve always feared my power—”

“Your recklessness, perhaps, but your power is a joke,” the High Priestess hissed.  

“And you know that my child will be just as grand as I, and far beyond anything you could ever hope to achieve—”

“We are your family, Rowena. We will decide—”

“Excuse me, High Priestess, but there’s no one deciding what’s best for me but  _ me _ .”

Olivette rose from her chair, hands hooked into trembling fists.

“Rowena, you will kill it!”

And just like that, the argument was over, and everyone knew it. When a leader of your coven spoke in that tone, it was no longer a battle of wills, but a command.

The world was suddenly very big, and Rowena was very small. She remembered kneeling on the cold floor of her parents’ blackhouse, her mother looming over, impossibly large and intimidating, her father a stony presence in the corner. You must stop using magic, her mother had said. If you do not, you’ll be damned. You’ll be cast out from Heaven and never know salvation.

Back then, even if it were in Rowena’s power to change who she was, she would not have agreed. She’d have rather died.

The child in her stirred, and that same brand of certainty returned to her once more.

“I will not.”

A stillness settled. Some people drew closer to the walls where they leaned. Others silently moved their eyes between the two, trying to decide who might be the bigger threat. Rowena had hardly answered in a whisper, but her decision hung over the room, threatening to fall and crush anyone who dared make the first move.

Olivette retook her seat, slowly, to give herself time to regain control of her expression. She wanted to laugh. It had been a lark to switch Rowena’s potion that day, swapping the contraceptive for a powerless duplicate. A pregnancy from a human was a harmless gamble, the chance to force a little shame and humility upon the lofty girl. But for Rowena to wish to keep it? Olivette had to admit, she didn’t see that coming, but it was a dream come true. 

“Leave,” Olivette finally commanded, proud of how well she concealed her pleasure.  “You’ve chosen your family,” she continued,  “and you will live with that choice until you die. You are no longer welcome in this coven, and when the Grand Coven gets word of your decision, you’ll not be welcomed in any other, either. Embrace the mortal life you care to protect so much, because it’s the only one you have left. Should you ever show your face again, should you practice any spell, we will destroy you.”

Rowena felt something in her shiver and crack, like the stem of a flower trodden upon after a morning frost.

“You can't be serious—”

“You’re not deserving of our kindness, Rowena. You have no worth or purpose among us. Get out.”

Rowena’s mind raced, trying to find a flattering word, a clever token, that would make Olivette reconsider. She was a bright girl, and in matters of flight or fight, it was often a stroke of ingenuity that saved the day. But she couldn’t find her voice over the rush of blood in her ears, and even her pendant hung cold and indifferent on her neck.

“Rowena!” Olivette’s voice was a slide of metal between Rowena’s ribs. She could barely breathe. “Leave us, or we will be forced to remove you.” 

Some of the witches and warlocks grinned at that, like jackals eager to play now that they were sure who was the prey. That was bad enough, but it was those who shook their heads, pitying her, or feeling disgusted, that set Rowena’s feet in motion. 

She wouldn’t allow herself to feel any shame, and she let them know as much with her head up and shoulders back. They would like her to wear her pain like a banner, but instead, it was tempered in her rage, shaped with every step into the blade of her lips, the steel in her eye.

Family was once again a lie, but why should she care?

She had survived well enough on her own in the past.

And not every warrior needed an army.

“Rowena!”

Alycie’s voice reached her just as she left the dark building where the coven took its base. Outside, the day was painfully bright in contrast, the skies a shining sheet of white after the recent passage of rain. 

“Rowena, wait!” 

Rowena’s stomach curdled as the girl ran before her, barring her exit.

“Wait? Why? Because now that we’re out of earshot of the others, I’m worth your time again?”

Alycie flinched.

“You know there was nothing I could say that would change anything. You’re being unreasonable!” 

The judgement was easier to take from Olivette. With her, ultimately, the betrayal was a matter of politics. Alycie’s treachery ached like the tooth of a key scraped against the innermost chambers of her heart. 

“Even if I’m wrong, how dare you?” Rowena hissed. “How dare you cast me aside the second it becomes burdensome to stand by me?”

“It’s always been a burden to stand by your side! But this time you’re going too far!”

“It always has, has it? You seemed to be having your fun from how I remember it.”

“Rowena, I’m saying this as your friend—”

Rowena’s hand shot out, clutching Alycie’s wrist before the girl could react. 

“If you’re my friend, then come with me,” Rowena pleaded. “Help me. Don’t make me do this alone.”

Alycie’s shoulders sagged, but she said nothing. Rowena released her, but far as she was concerned, it was Alycie who had let her go.

“Rowena,” Alycie began, but Rowena had already begun walking away. “ Those creatures take, they don’t give! Why he left you breathing after he finished having his way with you is a mystery to me, but you’re a fool if you think he won’t kill you and the child as soon as he gets wind of this. Rowena!”

*****

 

In the weeks to come, Rowena’s sorrow cocooned itself in contempt. Most of the judgement which had been cast upon her she locked away, to be taken out and rolled viciously in memory whenever she found her strength waning, but there was one pervasive thought that could not be ignored: the warning regarding the child’s father.

_ You’re a fool if you think he won’t kill you and the child as soon as he gets wind of this. _

She wanted to believe Alycie was wrong. Not only because she was a spineless opportunist, but because of the danger involved. Demons were a hazardous affair, and if one meant you harm, well… Sooner or later, a witch had to close her eyes to rest, whereas a demon could chase you until the Rapture. 

Which is why she read herself blind into the night when it would be so much sweeter to succumb to exhaustion; why she spent hours wandering the woods, despite ankles that felt ready to burst, searching for the elusive solution.

_ Just in case _ , she told herself. Things were sure to be fine, but just in case.

If nothing else, her research was a means of distraction. Rowena, who took pride in her independence, more and more often found herself tucked into the corner of her home, hands wrapped tightly around her belly, pressing her teeth sharply into her lip, trying to focus on the pain rather than the overwhelming emptiness around her. 

At times, she was convinced she was going mad. 

While at market, she had seen a father brush a lock of hair from his little girl’s eyes, and without warning, burst into tears. She dropped the grains she bought and fled. Horrified by her display, despite her gnawing hunger, it wasn’t until much later that she returned to the village for the food, and only then because she feared for the well-being of the life growing inside her.

The world, once small and secure in her palm, now sifted through her fingers, and she couldn’t find her footing in the remaining sand.

Rowena desperately ached for a soft hand to stroke her back, a warmth to fall asleep against, the strength and promise of another’s arms holding her at night. It was a longing that consumed her — so much so, that when she felt a hand touch her shoulder one night, she looked up with relief rather than terror.

“How did you find out?” she asked.

The demon retreated a step, and with difficulty, Rowena pulled herself into a seated position, her belly heavy in her lap.

“Rumors travel fast. Even in Hell.”

It was too dark to read his face, though she had the uncomfortable sensation that he could see hers perfectly. 

He didn’t praise her. Didn’t touch her. There was no reason to believe he should, but resentment quickly rose and twisted within her chest, like a nest of adders disturbed from slumber.

“I’d have thought demons have more pressing matters to tend to than gossip. Not that this is any of your concern.”

When he didn’t reply, she snapped, “If you’re going to invite yourself into my home in the middle of the night, the least you could do is put on a light. Do I look like I’m fit to jump up and serve you?”

She jerked back when three candles were set aflame with a snap of his fingers, but it was his eyes that truly unnerved her. Black as the abyss, he was purposely leaving her no room to forget what he was. Theatrical on his part, but it was effective; sweat beaded at the small of her back, cold and clammy.

“Very few women allow a demon’s seed to grow within them,” he said. 

His oily stare slid to her stomach, lingering, and Rowena unconsciously crossed her arms protectively over the generous bump.

“I don’t see why not. You might be a demon, but you’re wearing a man. A babe is a babe is a babe.” Carefully, to not let slip her concerns of tails or horns or who knew what, she added, “...Or is there something I should know about giving birth to the child of a possessed man?”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never known one to be born.”

He let the words dangle over her, setting the guillotine. In return, Rowena smiled graciously, as if oblivious to the unspoken threat.

“Yes, well, some women scare easy.”

“It’s not as simple as that.” He grinned, then, but his cheekiness didn’t possess the same allure as before. On the night of the winter solstice, a flash of his teeth had been electrifying, like getting close to the majesty of a predator in the wild. Here, in her room, his smile was more akin to a bedtime-story wolf baring its fangs. “Demons might enjoy the occasional fuck, but we usually take a very different kind of pleasure from our … lovers … in the aftermath.”

Rowena needed little creativity to imagine what that  _ pleasure _ might consist of. It was little wonder that the women who survived didn’t, or couldn’t, bring their children into the world.

“Then why’d you let me live?” she snarled, any pretense of pleasantry gone.

He shrugged. “You’re a witch. I thought you would have been able to prevent a pregnancy.” His smile transformed, more syrup and less tooth. “And, I’ll admit, you were an amazing fuck. I thought it might be fun to run into you at next year’s solstice.”

“Well, it looks like you were wrong on both accounts.”

“And that’s exactly what brings me here.”

Rowena’s eyes darted to his hip, his back, seeking signs of a weapon. He didn’t appear to be armed, but that did nothing to ease her growing discomfort. She had experienced a sliver of his strength before, and had no doubt what he could do with his bare hands if motivated. 

He continued, “I truly hoped you had gotten rid of it by now, but given your sudden acclimation to motherhood — where do you think you’re going?”

Rowena had pulled herself to her feet with an airy groan, urging her bones, stiff with fear and sleep, to move past him.

“I’ve got to piss, is that alright with you? I swear this child’s made me go enough to fill the River Tay. Likes to wait until I’m resting my eyes before kicking me right in the bladder, too.”

She ignored his look of distaste as she shuffled across the room to her chamber pot. Made it a point to demonstrate how little a damn she gave by unabashedly pulling her nightskirt up around her knees.

Lip curled, he turned away.

“Even we have rules, Rowena.” He raised his voice to drown out the sound of nature taking its course where she squatted. “And a child between human and demon is forbidden.”

“According to whom?” For once, Rowena was thankful for her pregnant body’s incessant need to relieve itself. She took advantage of the moment to reach behind the chamberpot, fingers blindly clawing until they found purchase on what they sought.

“Not your concern,” he answered, turning back to face her when he saw her shadow take a stand.

Rowena snorted. “Is that so? And since when did demons care about rules, anyway? Isn’t breaking laws and being mischievous little boys what gets you damned in the first place?”

“Be that as it may, this is a risk I’m not willing to take. Should my superior find out I was screwing around when I was supposed to be making contracts—”

“I’m sorry, did you say your superior?” Knowing that his game was about to end, one way or another, emboldened Rowena. She let her question roll off a lilt of laughter.

With brutal strength, he seized her arm. She bit back her cry of pain when he twisted her hand behind her waist, but the grunt as he knocked her back into the wall was unavoidable. 

“We all answer to someone, Rowena,” he snarled. “Even you’ll have to someday.”

“Well, not today, lover,” she spat. “And you tell your master he can stick his jewels in a hornet’s nest if he thinks he can have any say in my life!”

“No one speaks to Alastair like that,” the demon snorted. “Rowena, you will kill that child, or I’ll destroy you both. Here and now. I would do that anyway, if I didn’t think it would sour my reputation among future clientele within your coven. “

“Fuck off.”

“Tempting, but now’s not the time.”

“I mean it. You get out of here, now, or you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

Her free hand rose, revealing a small, black pouch. She intended to shove it in his face if he didn’t release her, perhaps make a go of shoving it down his shirt, but he plucked it from her with a speed she hadn’t thought possible.

“A hex bag?” He laughed, and Rowena felt the baby kick between them. “I would’ve thought you smarter than this. These trinkets don’t work… don’t… on demons, they don’t...” 

Rowena didn’t know what to expect. Melting, rendering, perhaps an imploding organ or two. Devising a hex that could harm a demon had been two parts science and one part crossing her fingers and hoping to God she didn’t somehow make her home explode by some magical mishap.

But her biggest fear was being relieved before her eyes. She had worried it was a lost cause, that the hex would have little to no effect, but the demon’s eyes were bulging in pain inches from her own.

“Not feeling so keen?” she purred. She couldn’t resist. The would-be killer of her child had gone grey, and his legs shook in their effort to support him. No one could blame her for wanting to flaunt. “Well, that’s because I designed this little present just for you. Consider it a token of my—”

He vomited. Not the vile stuff that stuck to the dirt of every pub after a night of business, but a  black tar that reeked of sulfur. Rowena’s boast shattered with a shriek as she was caught right in the path of the projection.

Seconds later, he dropped to the floor, his skin deathly white against the midnight pool streaming from his mouth. For all appearances he seemed dead, but to make sure, Rowena gave him several pointed kicks with the ball of her bare foot.

“All that fuss about demons, and that’s it?” She crouched and wiped her hands off on his shoulder. “Well, I suppose it’s not your fault, is it, lover? It’s not as if you could have known who you were up against. I’m not your everyday caster, now am I?”

The clean-up was a messy and body-aching affair, but Rowena carried it out with a glee she hadn’t felt for months.

“I’ve seen women farm lands when with babe,” she said, singsong, to the child in her belly. “I’ve seen them trudge for miles, gaggles of children at their feet, wrestling the chores of the day with a strength few could ever truly appreciate.”

A shovel of dirt flew, pattering like rain against the side of her home.

“But what I’ve never seen, my sweet babe, is a mother-to-be breaking her back in the wee hours to bury a demon in the garden.”

She grinned in the darkness, heedless of the mud coating her arms as she swiped sweat from her brow. “Let them say what they will about your mother, but I’m nothing if not delightfully full of surprises. Not to mention, one of, if not the most, brilliant witches this side of the ocean.”

Under the cover of night, Rowena was comfortable enough to drop to a seat to admire her work. The body was none too deep below the fresh dirt, but it would have to do. Come spring, perhaps she could convince some lilacs to grow in the spot. Or it could be a new place to dump her chamber pot.  

Feeling a kick, she smiled and rubbed the swell of her tummy. “And you’ll be just as amazing as me, my boy.” Without understanding why, she had been certain for weeks that it was a son she’d soon bring into the world.

“I’ve decided I’m going to name you Fergus. Like Fergus Mor, legendary king, first of Scotland. You and I, we’ll never bow to anyone. You’re going to be powerful, a force unlike any ever seen. Together, we’ll make this world ours. My little king.”


	11. Interim

Charlie’s done her part well. An honest girl like that, I didn’t think she would be a good actress, but I’m delighted to say she’s proven me wrong. Castiel hardly looks thrilled at the prospect of having to give me a timeout, but he’s taken Charlie’s plea to heart and is doing what he can to provide her some space.

What with everyone doing their best, it’s only right that I do the same with my own performance.

“Alone time? Why does she need alone time? Bit of a prima donna if you ask me,” I say peevishly.

Charlie glances up, but it’s alright for me to make the jab. Now that we’re partners, it’s acceptable to tease.

Castiel, however, can’t appreciate a bit of humor. The man’s all business when it comes to shackling up a lady, and no sooner does he finish, than he starts heading to the door. I take that as my cue to start flapping my lips.

“The girl is simply out of her league. Without me, the work grinds to a halt.”

He’s let the door clang shut before I even get the full sentence out.

“Rowena. She needs quiet. She’s under a lot of pressure, and it doesn’t help that she feels like she’s betraying her friend.”

“Ooh, betrayal. Pfft! She’ll get over it. Once she has children of her own, she’ll know all about betrayal.”

The shock on his face is wonderfully transparent.

“You have a child?” he asks.

“Do I have a child. The King of Hell? That’s all. The _King_.”

“Crowley is your son? Well, that explains a lot.” I’d swear he almost sounds sympathetic as he adds, “I’m sure that was quite a challenge.”

I could keep him entertained for days with stories in response to _that._ But I don’t need to. Enough time’s passed. If the job’s been done right, she’s gone by now.

So instead of keeping up this oh so interesting chat, I only smile.

Given the confusion that immediately comes across his face, it’s not the response he expected. To be fair, I suppose I’ve earned myself a reputation as a chatterbox.

“Well, back to it, eh? We’re wasting time in here,” I gently nudge.

The angel is unsettled. He tries not to show it, but we’re not all made to be decent liars, now are we?

“I’m gonna… see how she’s doing,” he falters.

I count the seconds under my breath, and then the sweetest sound I’ve heard in a long while echoes through this dank hole of a hideout:

“CHARLIE!?”

*****

 

I’ve been returned to my original post, while the angel continuously calls the nerd’s name outside around the perimeter. It’s like listening to a person who’s lost their cat but is too fearful to go searching, lest the poor creature wander back to find its owner gone.

Or perhaps he’s worried the mice will play if he’s away for too long.

Either way, no skin off my nose. At least, not so long as this ends here.

I idly draw my fingers along the codex, since Charlie was so kind as to leave it behind, as I wait for my call to connect. That’s right, my call. Samuel thought it well to deny me my powers and the majority of my tools, and yet he left me my mobile so we could stay in touch. It’s pretty insulting, when you think about it. As if I have no friends to turn to for help.

… Well, I don’t, but that’s beside the point. 

A stodgy voice echos on the other side of the line.

“Styne Estates. How may I direct your call?”

“Charlie has the book. She’s alone. At the Blackbird Motel. Registered under a different name, but she’ll have checked in tonight.”

“M’am, excuse me? I’m not sure what this is in regard to, but—”

“Just run along and tell whomever’s in charge. Unless you prefer the Winchesters beat you to her.”

I disconnect the call and get back to work.

Time is money.

Or in this case, blood.


	12. Chapter 12

_“Five... four… trios… zwei… uno.”_

_— Crowley, 8.22, Clip Show_

* * *

 

Her child was trying to kill her.

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, given the usual patterns of her life.

“While I can admire a strong will,” she hissed, teeth grit and fingers hooked in the crumpled sheets, “this isn’t a fight you’ll win, so why don’t you hurry it on and get the hell out of me so we can start — _ungh_! — loving one another!”

She broke off into a pained scream, her spine so taut she felt it might splinter through her skin. Inside, the baby seemed to be clawing at her stomach with tiny fist and nail, gripping at her in the same way she gripped the sheets, both of them refusing to let go.

It had started off as such a pleasant day, too.

Nearly a month ago, that first morning after the kill, most of her cheer had disappeared. Instead, she was left with a hollow exhaustion, her body protesting the hard labor of the night before, every movement biting at muscles and bits she never knew she had.

She spent the morning staring warily at the door, expecting to find venomous black eyes watching, come there to demand blood for blood. But either demons thought little of vengeance, or the father of her child had been honest about fearing his master’s wrath and had kept her pregnancy to himself. Either way, no one came, not demon or witch or human, to further interfere. And with time, things got better. Optimistic, even.

Rowena’s days passed in blissful peace, and in the weeks that followed, she thought less of the past and more of the future. When she wasn’t taking care of the usual necessities, she sat quietly in the soft Scottish sunlight, entertaining herself with dreams of things to come.

She would nurture her boy’s powers in ways that hers had never been. Her mother used to strike her if she set a candle to light, would aim sharp kicks whenever Rowena unconsciously caused a lilac to bloom with her young laughter. Fergus would be embraced, encouraged. She’d hold him in her lap, and in the evening, they’d see if they could make the glowworms dance like the glittering constellations overhead.

He’d be her coven, and she his.

And one day, when he was strong, the kind of warlock who was the living embodiment of his namesake, perhaps they would pay a visit to her old _family_ , and demonstrate to them the true meaning of the word.

But those dreams were fluff and whimsy, pretty stuff, unlike the nagging pangs that interrupted her sleep, or the pool of pink water that had rushed down her legs that morning.

She had read enough to know what both meant, and hurriedly set to make the preparations. Fresh water was brought to bedside, as were linens and rags. Within reach, she set herbal poultices of crushed rowan berries and spices, as well as small bottles of rose oils. And, of course, a fresh bottle of whisky stood at the ready on her nightstand.

No sooner had she finished than the pain heightened, so fast and vicious that it made her earlier spasms feel like a love bite. She stumbled her way into bed, closed her eyes, and smiled around the contraction.

“Soon we’ll be together, my little king,” she had happily murmured.

That was hours ago.

Her contractions came and went, one minute throwing her into torment, and in the next, teasingly allowing her a few haggard gasps of respite. The knowledge gleaned from her books was no replacement for an experienced mother, and in her agony, Rowena wondered if there was some detail she had missed. Surely she wasn’t supposed to feel as if her body was being torn in two. No woman in her right mind would endure this of free will.

There were times when she thought she heard her mother calling her name, or Alycie’s laughter at her ear. Each time she reached out and grasped nothing.

As the day dwindled, a fevered sweat came over her, and she ebbed in and out of dark dreams. Nightmare and reality lapped and swirled, until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Once, upon awakening, she had whimpered at the darkness beyond her window, unable to discern time and place. It couldn’t possibly be nightfall, not when her labor had begun in the earliest yawnings of dawn. She twisted in her sheets, soaked and sour against her skin, wondering how many hours had passed, if not days. Perhaps she was already dead, and this was the damnation her mother had always foretold for her.

She swore at her unborn child. Then she coddled and cooed. When her legs trembled and she felt another push would be the death of her, she tried to tease him out with promises of all the sweet things to come. But all the tricks that had served her so well in life did nothing for her now. Rowena hadn’t felt so helpless since seeing that young woman — _what was her name_? — burned alive so many years ago.

And so, for the last time in her life, she begged.

She didn’t know if she were pleading to God or Goddess, to devil or angel, to struggling child or her own straining body.

But that didn’t work, either, no matter how sincere the sentiment.

“Fine,” she wheezed, trembling as she struggled to sit up. “Just me again, is it?”

She glared at the swollen arch of her belly, strange and foreign in the shine of her tears.

“Well” — _huff_ —  “that’s fine by me. I’ve gotten this far on my own.”

A pressure was building, fast and low. Rowena squeezed her eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to bear down, but it was a struggle to find the strength. Her body told her all she needed was one good push, a final hearty shove that would either bring life into this world or strip her own from it.

“I won’t let you kill us,” she snarled. “This world is a shitty place, but I’m not through with it yet. You’re going to be the most amazing man this world has ever seen, and I’m—”

Everything left her at once. Not just the child, but her pain and struggle, all flooded out in an explosive dark tide. She vaguely sensed something squirming, warm and wet, tickling her thighs, but she couldn’t raise her head to see. She was drowning. Blackness swam before her eyes, and as she sunk below its surface, she could hear a pitiful crying, but it was left behind on the shore.

*****

 

When she opened her eyes again, it was still night, and the blood painting her thighs was tacky on her skin. Rowena warily propped herself on one elbow, listening in the dark. Between her legs, a small body wriggled and chuffed, mewling when its cries went unanswered. Rowena had never seen a newborn, save the ones her father’s goat had popped out when she was still a child. The baby squealing from her lap was decidedly less cute, and a good deal more bloody.

Wincing, she reached down and gathered him into her arms, bewildered at the wrinkled face blinking up at her. She tried to feel the joy she had anticipated, a measure of relief that he appeared whole and human. But all she felt was exhaustion.

She fumbled for the blade at her bedside, giving no thought to severing the tie between them. She cut the cord with the same rote, perfunctory care she afforded to any chore. Of far more interest was the whisky.

The bottle’s weight was almost more than she could handle, its glass lip shaking badly as she held it to her mouth. It was tepid at best, but she greedily swallowed it down, letting it burn away the pain of a throat screamed raw.

Below, the baby blindly pawed at her chest, lips puckering like a fish on a pier. It started to wail, and she lowered the whisky, splashing a mouthful of the liquor across its mouth. That only made it scream louder, and it was only when she guided its eager lips to her breast that it relieved her of its cries.

Outside the window, the sky began to bleed with a new day.

“Thursday’s child,” Rowena murmured, and then darkness overcame her once more.


	13. Interim

Things have certainly taken a turn for the exciting!

Charlie’s dead; Castiel’s left, sent to fetch the wayward Winchester (as I said, “a dog that thinks he’s people”); and Sam is off to murder my son. 

The hex I gave him to use on Fergus is of my own design. The very same that destroyed his father. There’s a nice poetry to it, don’t you think?

And in the meanwhile, I get to sit back and appreciate the feel of the world at my fingertips.

I suppose you think my pride would be bruised, given that some nerd, with a wee bit of quiet, could crack in a few hours what I couldn’t in days. But you’d be wrong. Envy’s a petty thing, not to mention a waste of time. Women who know their own merit don’t need to spend an ounce of energy hating on what we can gain from another. 

And that lass gave me the key to it all.

What a door it’s opened, too! The things I’ve read in the last hour alone would scare most to death, and others? Well, it’s not so hard to imagine why Sister Agnes went mad. Luckily for me, she was insane, but she wasn’t sloppy. Some of her notes are a bit on the eccentric side, but they’re clear enough, in their own delusional way.

For example, as could be expected, she states that the cost of removing the Mark of Cain is one of the greatest in the world. That makes perfect sense.

What’s confusing is the price. As she puts it: “By releasing the bearer of the mark, one will unleash ‘The Darkness’ upon the world.”

Now, what do you suppose that is? With a name like that, I suspect we can’t expect peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

Agne’s description of my role in this is nearly as vague, too. In fact, the book makes only one mention of the caster’s part in this spell, and even that...

… Nevermind. There’s no point in getting into it until I finish deciphering what’s needed to even begin. 

*****

 

Now here’s something no one saw coming, not even me! From the very beginning, this entire escapade has been moot! I can’t perform the spell! As if asking for the forbidden fruit and first idol are not enough, now it’s calling for something I love? Ha! 

Congratulations, world, you’ve finally found the one thing you can’t take from me, because it never existed. 

Feathers finds that hard to believe, however, and is coming at me. Admittedly, when a man advances with his fingers looking like that, it’s not my forehead I expect to have poked, but—

“A Polish boy. Oskar,” says Castiel.

The name sounds like a buried secret. The kind you don’t remember until a familiar face brings everything rushing back.

“I’m sorry, Oskar? You saw Oskar?”

“Who is he?” Sam demands.

“Who  _ was _ he? A.. peasant boy — his family helped me through some difficulties. Three hundred years ago!”

My interrogation is broken by the ringing of Sam’s phone, but my mind is reeling too fast to pay attention to his call.

_ Oskar? _

I was a novice in those days. A complete amateur. I cured the boy, yes. Did more than that. Tried to grant him eternal life. But it was a show of gratitude, certainly not love. And I couldn’t even tell you if the immortality spell even worked. I didn’t linger to find out. Had I stayed after curing him, their town might have started asking questions. I didn’t want to bring down upon their household the hatred that had befallen my own home. Not to mention, there was too much left for me to do, to learn, to settle. Olivette had to pay… 

And there goes Sam again, out the door. Castiel’s gone shortly after with a warning for me to behave and little else. 

They didn’t listen to a word I’ve said. If ever I felt anything for Oskar — which I assure you, I did not — it’s as long dead as he likely is.

These boys are in for a world of disappointment.

It’s best I start looking for a spell that can help me break these chains.


	14. Chapter 14

_“You lied to me.”_

_“It’s not the first time today.”_

_— Crowley & Dean, 10.14, The Executioner’s Song_

* * *

 

Maybe she had bled the love out of her when she expelled him into the world.

The thought came to her from time to time, usually when she was up in the wee hours of the night, pacing, trying to quiet his cries, almost mindless with exhaustion. Other times, she’d be spooning him mouthfuls of porridge, her own stomach gnawing in hunger, when he’d spit the food up and glare at her, as if furious she couldn’t do better. And then he’d cry. Always, he cried.

_Who is this boy?_ she would ask herself. _How did I ever think I loved him?_

Whenever the thought tramped in, guilt followed enthusiastically after. It clamped down with iron teeth that made tears spring to her eyes until she ran to his crib and gathered him to her breast, cooing words of love and apology. This usually woke the baby up, and he’d wail until dawn.

The days felt long, the nights longer.

And the baby continued to grow, as did the dust on her spellbooks and vials.   


*****

 

Rowena sat at one end of the table, and Fergus the other. Between them, a small, steaming bowl and a cold candle.

“This isn’t changing water to wine!” Rowena snapped. “You want something to eat, don’t you? Belly rumbling? Then do something about it.”

Truth was, she didn’t care if he lit the candle. Far as she was concerned, he could make the curtain blow, the table shimmy, or their one hen turn blue. So long as he did _something_.

Rowena had first displayed her gift when she was two. Her mother had found her laughing, lying under the table, clapping as her doll pirouetted and curtsied. Isobel had burned the doll and spanked the child, not that Rowena remembered any of it. She only knew because she had been told the tale countless times. Isobel had meant for it to serve as a warning, but the young Rowena had been enchanted to learn she had magical powers.

Fergus was going on three, and hadn’t so much as made a coal spark.

“Oh, are you getting mad at me? Your own mother?” She goaded him on purpose. When she was very young, her magic awakened when her emotions became more than her young mind could handle. If she needed to piss him off to open the gate to his potential, then so be it.

But Fergus only glared, his lower lip starting to tremble. Rowena knew what that meant.

Since he was a babe, the child’s modus operandi was to scream at everything that displeased him. Time hadn’t tempered his tantrums, only gave him the strength to scream louder.

Rowena shoved his porridge at him before he could start.

“I’m only doing this for your own good,” she said, and instantly regretted it.

She sounded like her mother.

*****

 

“Come on, now! Be quick!” Rowena called over her shoulder.

She smoothly lead the way through the market, nimbly dodging barrels heavy with golden barley, weaving between weather-beaten merchants and stalls. The air hung thick with the smells of new pelts and baked breads, the shouts of bartering and the bleats of livestock.

It would be difficult for any eight-year-old to navigate the chaos, let alone one sporting a hangover. Fergus’s head seemed filled to busting with a scratchy, iron wool. Keeping his mother’s wares balanced in hand was struggle enough, never mind keeping up with her in the crowd.

Her boxes and bottles, stacked to his nose, wobbled with every step. Decorating their sides, carefully penned labels boasted cures for anything from a hangnail to a broken heart. Rowena had never educated Fergus on their contents, but he was pretty sure their promises were a load of bullshit.

Whatever Rowena put in her wares was assembled messily and with haste. The stuff that was actually worth something — the potions and spells she spent hours on, poring over with fevered concentration — that, Fergus was sure, was the good stuff. And his mother believed it was her little secret.

But she was wrong.

It used to be that a few tumblers of whisky would have him passed out clean until morning. But nowadays, there were evenings when he’d swim to the surface of consciousness, and there, wading, watch her at work.

The first time he awoke to her practicing magic, he thought he was dreaming. Rowena’s face kept twisting and changing, painted gold by candlelight in one moment, and in the next, closed under a rippling curtain of dark wings. The image didn’t reconcile in his mind until he noticed an unfamiliar cage set on the table before her. Between its bars, a house sparrow fluttered and hopped. A tiny thing, Fergus groggily thought it a strange animal to catch, probably worth no more than a mouthful or two once plucked and cooked.

It sang a song he would never forget — one that, perhaps, instilled within him a lasting distaste for all things feathered. A twisted melody of fear, the shrill notes beat flatly against the walls until Rowena took the bird in hand and silenced it with a violent twist of its neck. That alone nearly sent the boy deep under his covers, but curiosity won over instinct. Trembling, he watched his mother continue, first in rapt fascination, and then in horror, as she broke through the feathery breast and began using its blood to paint strange ruins on her skin.

A whimper crawled up from his belly and into his throat, but he had the sense to block its exit by cramming a dirty fist into his mouth. Nearly crippled with fear, he carefully wriggled his way deeper beneath the blanket.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Somehow, he made it through that night without giving himself away. The next day, Rowena thought him a shade paler than the norm, but she chocked it up to one swallow of whisky too many. She'd give him a little less the next time.

And as easily as that, Fergus was unknowingly initiated into his mother's secrets.

At first, it was fear of punishment that kept him from running away, but in time, his goosebumps grew less, and his heart didn’t beat quite so frantically when he caught her in the act. Week by week, Fergus was discovering something new about himself, though he was too young to fully realize it: like mother like son, he was drawn to power.

He came to look forward to those nights when she'd slide a pitcher of ale to him from across the table. Sure, he’d mumble and groan, but it was all a performance. If Rowena had taught him anything in his short life, it was how to spin a lie. The truth was, if he trembled as he accepted the drink, it was only because he could barely suppress how eager he was for the evening to come.

The best was when she turned away long enough for him to dump the liquor out the window. If successful, he could watch with a clear head as she performed the most incredible feats — spinning flames the color of nightshade, or turning quaking field mice into obsidian rooks.

Then there were the nights Rowena left the house to disappear into the forest. Each time, Fergus waited until the shadows swallowed his mother up, and then he rushed to pull her books out from under the floorboards. Given the chance, he’d spend hours with his nose pressed to their pages, like a ravenous beggar longingly pressed to a bakery window. But the signs and symbols littering the books were like jewels, beautiful but ultimately useless. They meant nothing to him.

Even if they had been written in standard calligraphy, Rowena had never taught him to read.

Nights of normalcy became a point of severe frustration. On more than one occasion, he’d take out the bottle of whisky himself, hoping she'd be inclined to cast her spells if she thought him passed out in bed. Instead, Rowena would shout and swat at him, yelling all the while, “Keep it up, and you just watch! You’ll die in the gutter, covered in your own sick!”

That always hurt. He didn’t want to die. Didn’t really want to be piss-drunk, either. He wanted to come clean. Confess and tell her he knew everything. The urge was especially strong on days when they lacked food. Or when winter slipped under the door. Or when he came home bloodied by the fists of the stupid children in the village, who would laugh and tease and snigger with their parents, whispering the words “bastard” and “witch” whenever Fergus and Rowena walked by. He had thought the latter a cruel, vicious rumor. Now he knew the word “witch” for the truth and power it was.

He couldn't understand why they should ever have to suffer if they had magic in their hands.

Take today, for example. They had been in the market for hours, wandering the square, yelling about their mixes and salves, and had hardly a copper to show for it. It seemed an awful lot of work for awful little in return, and now she was rushing him along, as if there were a fortune to be found if only they were quick enough.

“Fergus! Are you deaf? Can you not hear me talking?”

He snapped to attention, but not before colliding with her legs, sending several of the bottles raining to the ground.

“Are you off your head, stumbling around like that? I swear, sometimes you’re as thick as you are lazy. If you’re not going to use your brain, then at least put the rest of yourself to work. Go on! Pick it all up!”

In his imagination, he slammed his foot down, shattering the worthless bottles, and threw what remained of them at his mother’s feet. He told her how stupid these potions were, and how stupid _she_ was for dragging them out to market when she could probably magic whatever they needed into existence.

In reality, Fergus awkwardly dropped to his knees, ignoring the cold mud sucking at his pants, and tried to gather up what he had dropped without sending the rest of the wares toppling.

Above him, his mother sighed. He would have prefered her anger to that exasperated sound.

“When you’re done, wait here,” Rowena instructed. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Fergus didn’t object. Even if he had, Rowena wouldn’t have noticed, already lost to the crowd.

“I hate her,” he said, really wanting to mean it.

Once everything was recovered, he took a seat against a flower stand, making certain to stay out of the owner’s line of sight. She was an old woman with a unique face, mapped with a thousand wrinkles, but other than that, she was like all the rest — she didn’t care for Fergus or his mother.

Still, this was a great place to catch a breather, and it offered a clear view of the families milling about. To Fergus, they were like foreigners with strange customs. Fathers were tousling their children's hair, and mothers held small hands in their own, leading their sons and daughters through the market.

His own mother’s love was like the stained glass window in the village parish. On days ripe with sunshine it shone beautifully, but the second clouds gathered, its brilliance was lost, and all that could be seen were the dark fissures that cracked and divided its surface.

Fergus couldn’t remember many sunny days.

“Mum!”

A boy a few years younger than himself ran past, smiling like an idiot. He rushed into his mother’s arms, waving a bluebell before her nose. The little blossoms could be found on any hillside, but she laughed and hugged him as if its petals were made of gold.

“Stupid gits,” Fergus muttered.

And then he leaned around the front of the flower stand, eyeing the rows of colors, wondering which he could steal without being spotted. He crawled forward, thinking one well-timed swipe would do the trick, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

Yelping, he ripped himself away.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” he shouted. “I only wanted to—”

His protests died when he realized he hadn’t been discovered by the florist, but by another woman. She was smiling at him, which was of no comfort. To Fergus, smiles always made a person more worthy of suspicion.

“Want a flower for your mother, too, lad?” Before he could reply, the woman swept her elegant fingers over the stand’s selection. When she crouched beside him, a small branch lined with lavender flowers lay in her hand.  “Go on, don’t be shy. Take it. I don’t need anything in return.”

“How come?” Fergus asked. His chin was lowered, but his eyes were up, watching her through his mess of hair.

“Well…” She smiled gently at Fergus’s wary face. “They say if you do good, good will come to you. So it’s not entirely selfless of me, is it?”

Put like that, it made perfect sense to the boy.

“I don’t know this kind. What is it?” Fergus asked, accepting the gift.

“It’s a branch from a redbud tree.”

“But it’s purple,” he pointed out. His frown returned as he wondered if she were playing a trick after all, but she didn’t laugh at his question.

“Well, there are some that also refer to it as a Judas Tree.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s fitting. It’s a pretty little thing, in any case. But be sure to get it to her soon, love. It’s a delicate creature and dies very quickly.”

Fergus’s eyes darted to his mother’s wares, still seated in the mud. What was ‘very quickly,’ exactly? Because if this woman was talking a few hours or less, Rowena might never get the gift. It wouldn’t be unlike his mother to stay lost until night crept in and the streets were empty.

As if to confirm his fears, a few petals fell from the branch.

“If you’d like, I’ll watch over your things for a short while,” the woman offered.

Fergus jumped to his feet. Luck was a rare occurrence in his life, so he wasn’t about to squander what little of it came to him. He didn’t stop to say thank you, only took off running in the direction Rowena was last seen heading, the branch of small flowers cradled in his arms.

He wasn’t the most svelte of kids, but he dodged between the cracks in the crowds, barrelled through those he couldn’t, ignoring the growing stitch in his side and the aggravated shouts of those left in his wake. It was easy to run when you were happy.

Lucky for him, his mother stood out in a crowd, and it wasn’t long before he found her at the edge of the marketplace. He skidded to a halt, eyes widening at the hulk of a man she was speaking with. Either he was very big, or his mom’s diminutive size gave him the look of a boulder that had sprouted a head

He did not seem happy. His arms were folded, and his cliff of a jaw kept flexing as he chewed on a bit of leaf, like some ill-tempered bull. Rowena, in contrast, was smiling sweetly as a kitten.

“One pig,” the man snorted.

“Oh, come now.” Rowena’s lilt carried across the short distance to Fergus, who bounced in place, anxious to deliver the present. Maybe she’d talk sweetly to him, too, if she liked his gift.

“You’re a bright fellow,” his mother continued, one nail toying idly with the charm at her neck. “A few pigs will only be worth a single sale to you, or if you keep them about, maybe a few years of breeding at best. But a boy? Why, he’ll have a strong back until he’s at least 15, so long as you don’t work him too hard.”

Fergus dropped the flower.

“Fine! Three pigs! No more!” the man countered. The offer was better than she expected, and Rowena clasped her hands excitedly.

“Marvelous! My handsome man, we have a deal—”

A rock sailed through the air and struck the man directly at his temple, drawing a thick well of blood. Fergus had some talent when it came to juggling. In relation, his aim was rather decent, too.

He was, however, winded from his search for his mom, and the man turned out to be unexpectedly light on his feet. Before the boy could get more than a few steps away, he was lifted from the ground and held at the neck, like a pup about to be tossed in a well.

The man squinted at Fergus’s red curls and then Rowena’s. The thought process was like watching a child try to force a round peg through a square hole.

“This is the boy?” he finally asked, ignoring the blood marking a path down his face.

Rowena’s eyes cut to the side. “Never seen that child before in my life.”

Fergus, not too keen on helping his mother, given that she just tried to trade him for a few weeks of ham, started to yowl and kick. A few of his more colorful exclamations made the man’s eyes widen, but Rowena only rolled her own.

“No deal,” growled the man. He shoved Fergus into his mother’s arms, making boy and woman fall back into the mud. “My pigs have better manners.”

From the dirt, Rowena’s face flared with such contempt that Fergus forgot his anger, every hair on his neck standing at attention. This had to be it. The moment his mother would give up this pathetic charade and show people the power she wielded. He wondered if she’d roast the man alive, or perhaps turn him into a toad. He had always wanted a pet. Maybe a hound?

But Rowena only glared, and the man stormed away.

Fergus was crushed. His life was rarely easy, but this insult proved one too many for the day. He scrambled away from his mother and jabbed a finger toward her face.

“You were going to sell me!”

“Oh, please. Don’t be dramatic. I would have gone to steal you back in a few days.”

“For three pigs!”

Rowena sniffed. “He only wanted to give me two. You should be grateful I defended your worth.”

When Fergus didn’t reply, she braced herself. Her son’s anger was always more avalanche than storm; it never built gradually, but exploded with fury. Any second now, he’d be wailing at her loud enough to draw the eyes of every person in the marketplace. They’d love it. More fuel for their sniggers and gossip. Today alone, she had lost track of how many times she and Fergus had been followed by clucking tongues and hastily made signs of the cross. If not for her charm, she doubted they’d ever sell anything.

Not that Fergus ever cared. The boy ate his meals, wore his clothes, with never a thought of her struggle to provide. Even now, his lips were twitching, as if he couldn’t decide which words would hurt her the most. Well, he wasn’t the only one that was pissed.

“Save it for when we get home,” she spat, gathering herself from the dirt. “We don’t have enough daylight left to squabble. If we’re lucky, maybe I can still catch the Taylors. They’re usually happy to buy a few tonics— Fergus, where are my things?”

Fergus went slack. The anger left him in a rush that made his stomach drop, as if he had just missed a downward step. Above him, a smile formed on his mother’s face that reminded him of fissures in ice.

"Unless you're about to show me that your pockets are filled with money rather than those sweets I saw you snitch earlier,” she began, her voice as soft and sweet as winter powder, “you had better tell me where our livelihood is. _Now_."

The command was snapped at him as sharp as any backhand.

"I... I left them behind... but she said she'd watch them till I came back."

"She?"

"The... the lady... there was a lady—"

Rowena stalked past him, paying no mind to if he followed. There was a snap as her heel crushed Fergus’s flowered branch underfoot, but neither she nor he noticed. Rowena was too busy calculating her losses, while he was yapping off a series of excuses, bounding about at her feet.

"Mother, it'll be fine!” Fergus insisted. “She said—"

To preserve her sanity, Rowena let his voice be drowned among the shouts and clangs of a market day nearing its close. The hour was getting late and the stands were thinning out, people either packing their wares or off to care for their families.

The flower stand remained open, but it had no patrons. Flowers were of little interest in comparison to what lay in the road. Rowena and Fergus walked between those milling about to stare, stunned, at the sight in front of them. Fergus groaned deep in his throat.

“Well. At least they weren’t stolen,” Rowena said with brittle cheer.

Her boxes of powders and vials lay broken. The sun reflected off the fragments of their remains, glass littering the ground like teardrops.

"No! She said she'd watch everything! She wouldn't do this!" Fergus wheeled about, frantically searching for the woman, but she was nowhere in sight. "This isn't my fault!"

Rowena was silent, her face so still it could have been that of a doll's. Whispers floated around them, soft and delicate as a spider’s threads, until the crueler spectators punctuated the hush with venomous snickers. And still she didn’t move. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her distress.

“This isn't my fault!” Fergus protested again. When she didn't reply, he kicked at the ground, sending the splinters of a blue bottle spinning. “She said she'd watch! We should go after her! Make her pay!”

A woman in the crowd met Rowena’s eye with pity. Hopeless, that look said. Pathetic. Sad. Lost cause. Every passing second of her sympathy painfully branded judgement upon Rowena’s heart.

It had been nearly nine years since the coven cast her out, but the moment returned to her with such force she nearly buckled over. The air suddenly felt too hot to bare. Around her, faces blurred, becoming muddled reflections of the brothers and sisters who had disowned her.

Back then, she was able to face it with her head held high, still hopeful for the future. Now, she could only turn away, her breaths quick and tight as she struggled to keep her face controlled.

“Mother! Mother!” Fergus shrieked at her back.

Rowena couldn’t shape a reply, her lips numb and alien.

This mouth couldn’t possibly be her own. Her tongue was meant to be a silver dagger, not the limp piece of flesh she now bit between her teeth.

Nor could these legs be the ones that had once carried her through forests. Rowena possessed a natural elegance, the kind of liquid grace found only in the wild, but now she was shuffling, forcing her feet along, her legs stiff and awkward, like the wooden stumps of a marionette.

“Mother! Where are you going? Mother!”

_Where…? I used to know. I used to know._

And not only did she not know, she didn’t care. Rowena was tired.

Fergus looked helplessly to the adults around him, but most looked away, uninterested now that the performance had come to a close. The few who remained shook their heads or awkwardly turned aside, as if embarrassed for him. He paced back and forth, hands wringing the hem of his shirt, unsure of whether he should chase after his mother or not.

He decided it would be safer to first collect what could be salvaged. He doubted any of it would be enough to make things right, but that emptiness in his mother’s face unnerved him in a way her anger never had. Dropping to his knees, he started picking through the damp earth, coveting what tiny pinches of powder or herb he could glean from the grit. He had one palm filled when a foot lashed out before his nose, kicking up a spray of dirt that scattered his efforts.

“Unch!” he choked, wiping mud from his face.

“Give it up,” a boy snickered above him. “It’s not a loss. Nobody wants your mother's crap.”

Fergus didn’t need to look to know who was bullying him. The voice alone set his teeth on edge.

“Go away, Gil,” he grumbled, beginning once more to pick at the dirt.

“That’s it? That all you got to say? And here I thought you were gonna cry because we made a mess of things.”

Fergus shot to his feet, but Gil didn’t so much as flinch. From past experience, he knew he had nothing to fear from Rowena’s bastard. A few years gave him the advantage of size in a fight, plus there was his usual pack of four flanking his sides.

The smart thing would’ve been to suck up his losses and get moving, but Fergus’s mouth decided to run before the rest of him could.

“Why’d you break everything?! What’d you do to that lady?” he bellowed.

Gil snorted, and his lackeys, well trained, followed suit. “The lady? We didn't do a thing to her. She left soon as you were out of sight. Probably got a look at what you were selling and decided she didn't want nothing to do with some fake witch’s bastard.”

“Shut up! Liars!”

Fergus wished Gil would leer or get angry, but the older boy grinned as if that was the best joke he had heard in days.

“Liar? What do I got to gain by lying? Everyone knows your mother is a fake. Heard my mum say it plenty. Your mum makes fake medicines then pretends like she's a witch to cheat people into buying them. But there ain't nothing magical about this crap. All that witch stuff is a load of bullshit and everyone knows it.”

Before Fergus could rein in his temper, he spat, “That's not true!”

Witchcraft remained a crime punishable by death, so Fergus should have been relieved by the laughter which erupted around him. Instead, the sound only added to the roar in his ears.

“Is so,” Gil shot back, driving his friends into a chorus of laughter and whiny imitations of Fergus’s objections.

Malcolm — or as Fergus tended to think of him, Lackey No. 2 — stepped forward to play his expected part in the game. “Ha, bet the people who do buy something from Rowena are getting a lot more than what's in those bottles.” Smaller than Gil, he had to make up for what he lacked in stature with an extra share of meanness. “How else you think she ended up with this bastard?”

Fergus cracked his fist against the other boy’s nose so hard that he could feel the bone give.

They all looked stunned as Malcolm doubled over, clutching his face, and if Fergus’s dropped jaw was any indication, he was just as shocked. He learned long ago that it was easier not to retaliate against this group, however, the crunch of bone had delivered a surprisingly sweet rush of satisfaction. A grin began to stretch his cheeks when they fell on him in a flurry punches and kicks.

He lost the sky as they crowded over him, driving him to the ground. They shouted names at him, doing their best to make him hurt, just in case their hands and feet weren’t doing the job well enough, when a man broke through their circle.

“Hey, now! Oi!” he shouted, tossing aside those who weren’t smart enough to scatter. “Where do you think you are? I don’t give a damn what you lot are up to, but take it elsewhere, or I’ll box each of you before dragging you off to your fathers.”

True to his word, as soon it was obvious the boys weren’t going to pounce on Fergus the moment he turned his back, the man strode away.

It would have ended at that if Fergus left well enough alone. Instead, he spoke up, and in doing so, changed the course of all their lives.

“At the clearing!” he hissed at Gil. “After the sun goes down. Come meet me, unless you’re scared.”

“Are you serious?” Gil wiped his palms off on his pants. Fergus’s lip had broken like a grapefruit when he punched him.

“Think you hit his head too hard,” said Malcolm, who sounded as though he were suffering from a hell of a head cold.

“Yeah, forget it, Fergus,” Gil said. “Wasted enough time on you today.”

“You’re just scared!” Fergus challenged. The taste of blood in his mouth spurned him on. “You know my mum’s magic is real. That’s why you don’t have the balls to come. None of ya do.”

“Fuck off, you little—”

“What would your fathers say, if they heard you’re afraid of getting your ass kicked by a bastard—”

Gil rushed him, his fist finding a hold in Fergus’s hair before he could get another word out. Teeth bared, his breath puffed hot and sour in the smaller boy’s face.

“One hour after sunset, then. If you don’t show up, I’ll—”

“I’ll show up,” Fergus said, his own teeth gleaming, but in a bloodied grin. “Don’t you tell no one. If you’re so sure my magic is fake, you don't need to bring any grownups.”

A few of the other boys fidgeted at that, all at once younger and more vulnerable, but if Gil was bothered, he didn’t show it.

“And when you get the shit kicked out of you, you don’t snitch on us.”

“Deal.”

Minutes later, Fergus ran toward home as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn't have much time to prepare. The sun already hung low, the remains of its gold spilling across the fields like a freshly split yolk.

He didn’t feel his fresh bruises, and his tongue savored the tang of the split on his lip. That’d be the last mark Gil and his gang ever gave him. From tonight, everything would be different.

Hate and envy, excitement and glee, they all stirred into an emotional cocktail that made his blood hum. By the time he arrived home, he was drunk on fantasies of the evening to come.

“Mother! Your things — it was those prats, Gil and the others, who smashed them!” he announced, the door crashing closed behind them.

Rowena barely stirred. She sat at their table, hands around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.

“And I suppose you want me to… what?” she asked dully. “Go speak with their parents? Are you so daft that you think they’d give a damn what either of us has to say?”

“No! Course not! I challenged them to meet me later! Against magic, they won’t stand a chance!”

Rowena leapt to her feet, rocking the table. “You did it, then? You discovered your powers?!”

“My powers?” Fergus grinned uneasily. “I don’t have any powers. You do. I’ve seen them.”

She stiffened and fell back into her chair. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie! I’ve seen you! At night you—”

Rowena spun the cup slowly between her palms, ignoring the angry flush filling his cheeks. “You have always been a dreamer, Fergus. Add that to your drinking and, well, look at you. You can’t tell your dreams from reality.”

“Stop lying!”

“Don’t you speak to me like that. I’ve had enough today and—”

“I should go and tell them what you do!” Fergus took his time, taking pleasure in the comprehension blooming on his mother’s face. “I’ve seen it all! I can tell them all about your spells, and where you hide your books, and—”

“You have no idea what you’re threatening me with, Fergus. Threatening us _both_ with,” Rowena said, her voice paper thin.

He grinned, triumphant. “You’re admitting it!”

“Admitting you're the son of a witch is as good as suicide. Surely you understand that.”

“What? You’re afraid of them?”

“Afraid of these townsfolk? Ha!”

“Then why? Why do we have to listen to them? Why can't we have everything we want?”

“Nothing comes without sacrifice, Fergus. And you don't know the first thing about sacrifice.”

“I think you're making excuses. You’re scared. That’s why you always sneak!”

Rowena’s hands hooked along the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

“Then you must be weak!” His mother looked dangerous, but Fergus didn’t care. “All those times they beat me up, and teased me, and you called me weak! I must get it from you. Is that what made my dad run off? Was he ashamed because you're so useless?”

Fergus’s eyes widened as his mother flinched. She had never cared what he had to say before, no matter how mean, but somehow he had just hurt her. That had never seemed possible in the past.

He pressed his back to the door, readying himself for her retaliation, not trusting this newfound weakness to last.

“Very well, Fergus. If this is what you really want.”

She smiled at him, and Fergus was sure he heard her wrong.

“What…?”

“I said I’ll help you get your vengeance on those boys. I’ll show them why you should never trifle with the family of a witch.”

The fear and anger of moments before disappeared as easily as that, and Fergus leapt up and cheered. “Yes! So what do we need to do?”

Rowena shook her head. “You? Nothing, but lead me to the place. I’ll stay out of sight until we’re sure they didn't bring their parents along. And then… well, how about I make what comes next a surprise?”

An unexpected swell of affection washed over him, and Fergus rushed to his mother, throwing his arms about her neck.

“This will be perfect! You’ll see, mum! Things will get better after they learn to fear your power! You’ll be proud of me for tricking them into this fight when it’s all over!”

Rowena stroked his hair.

“I’m always proud of you, Fergus.”

*****

 

She had never taken him with her at night, and yet Fergus bounded through the ghostly fields as if he knew them by heart. Perhaps it had something to do with his father’s heritage. Maybe the boy was naturally drawn to darkness.

Rowena worried the other children would be cowed by the oppressive shadows, or made uneasy by Fergus’s confidence. She needed them to be fierce. Aggressive.

_Bigger emotions mean bigger results_ , she reminded herself.

Yes, it was back to this. How much time had passed since she had given up on Fergus? Years of coddling and pleading and punishment and play, one after the other in exhausting rotation, had produced no results. When she’d finally abandoned all hope of him possessing magic, she’d also decided it best not to reveal her own powers. At least, not until he came of a better age. As a child, his petulence and big mouth were a threat, as was proven today.

But life, in the usual way, was finding ways to surprise her. Here was her son, not only aware of magic, but willingly embracing it. And perhaps this awareness would awaken within him that which her efforts never could. That, and a little old-fashioned necessity.

Throw a pup in the water and it’ll be sure to paddle.  

So, although hope was a dangerous thing, Rowena let it tickle her. Just enough to warm the blood. If Fergus was right, tonight could be the start of a new and better life.

But that was getting ahead of things. First, they had to fix this mess with the children.

By the time they reached the clearing, Fergus’s hair was matted with sweat, his face ruddy. _Hardly the look of a warrior_ , Rowena thought with distaste, but she’d take what she could get. Now if only he would wipe that ridiculous smile off his face. He had chuffed gleefully the whole way here.

Rowena failingly grasped for that same measure of exhilaration. The land hadn’t yet traded its autumn colors for winter, but there was a bite in the air that warned of a harsh winter to come. It reminded her too much of another night, from a lifetime ago.

“I think I hear them coming!” Fergus whispered, scrambling ahead.

As Fergus ran to the peak of a hillock, she stayed near the line of the trees, for now only observing, as they had agreed. Fergus expected her to make a grand entrance once the boys were assembled, probably imagining hell raining down from the heavens and—

…They were here.

 

*****

The boys had been laughing when they first arrived, but the smug pleasure on Fergus’s face unsettled them into silence. They followed Gil’s earlier instruction, forming a circle around the bastard (“In case he tries to run off”), but no one thought he looked ready to flee.

“Surprised you actually showed up, bastard,” Gil said, sneering.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Fergus grinned, arms akimbo, and waited for his mother to enact their well-deserved vengeance upon the boys. Then Gil’s fist connected with his mouth, reopening the split from earlier and dislodging two teeth. Fergus coughed them into the dirt.

“Moth—!” he tried to shout, but another punch knocked the sound from him in a whush.

Fergus collapsed and squeezed his eyes shut, body curled into the fetal position. The pain kept him from focusing on any one thought for long, but he felt certain the plan was off. His mother wasn’t going to help him. His only comfort was in knowing that Gil and the others would soon leave him, their good sport lacking now that he was down.

But their usual laughter didn’t come, and their feet marched about him, circling.

“Get ‘im up.”

Fergus started to scream. The boy was never a fighter. Even in the best of times, when faced with an opponent as scrawny as himself, he still preferred flight to fight. Now, not only was he outnumbered and outmatched, but his muscles felt soft and unreliable. It was like a nightmare, where no matter how much he commanded his legs to move, he couldn’t so much as twitch, left paralyzed and helpless to his fate.

They lashed out with a rage that had nothing to do with him. A town’s worth of fear and hate, coupled with the anger of their own personal troubles and tragedies, all crashing into him with hard knuckles and jagged heels. Someone ripped him up by the hair, and there was a meaty thud against his nose, driving him back to the ground. That was probably Malcolm, Fergus realized. Fair enough.

Scornfully, he thought how stupid they were. Didn't they realize they had to pace the blows, or one would be dulled to the next?

Then something in his arm snapped, and he had no room to think of anything else.

*****

 

He didn’t know if Gil called the others off, or if the others had pried Gil off of him. What he did know was that the last of the sun’s heat had long since leeched from the ground, and he was grateful for the cool grass against his face. His heart was beating too loudly in his chest, swallowing up his thoughts, these hills, the very stars above with its awkward _ba-ba-bump-badda-ba-ba-bump_. It sounded like a moth beating against a window, frantic to find escape. He was trying to remember if his heart always sounded this way when a figure blocked out the moon.

Rowena didn’t touch him. She just stood there, staring, as if he were the one who had let _her_ down. The gravity of her betrayal kept him pressed to the ground more than the agony devouring his body.

Slowly, he took the sight of her in. Rowena’s dress was still muddy from earlier, but perfectly smooth. There was no sign she had been wringing its folds, not a single hint to suggest she had cared whatsoever when his bones and skin were being battered and torn.

And yet he still held out hope, wishing for… what? Tears on her cheeks? A trembling lip?

He knew now more than ever that he would never have those touches the other children shared with their parents, but that was okay. It’d be all right. If only he could have a single sign.

Love. Just a speck, just a shadow of the emotion. Even if a lie.

_Pretend for me._

_Pretend you love me._

But Rowena’s face was empty.

“You lied to me,” he finally mumbled, fighting to force the words past split and swollen lips.

“It’s not the first time today,” Rowena replied.

She turned and left him, both silently hating the other.

*****

 

The boys ran along the path to the village, carried by a high that tasted sweet as they cheered, but hot and poisonous when sucking the next breath down. It felt good to be strong and brave, so long as they didn’t stop to consider who they had stood up against. They hadn’t beaten a short, stout boy several years their younger, but a blight on the community. A hated bastard. A self-proclaimed son of a witch. Theirs was a celebration of being stronger and better.

Gil lead them like a torch in the night, vibrant with youth, the others only shadows at his heels. When he whooped, they echoed his cry, and when he skidded to a stop, they jostled one another to take position at his sides.

“Hey. You’re the one from earlier!” he shouted. A woman was standing in the middle of the road. She wore her cloak and hood as if it were the thick of winter, the material pulled high over her head, obscuring her face. Despite that, Gil recognized her by the silvery blonde hair, unique for this area, curling over her shoulders. “You’re the one who told Fergus you’d watch his stuff before running off.” Gil and the boys laughed. “Didn’t think adults played tricks like that.”

Cranberry lips curved. “Adults have had far more years than children to perfect their tricks. As I’m about to demonstrate. Would you like to help?”

“What? You’re playing another trick on Fergus?” Malcolm chimed in.

The pack of boys smiled as one.

“Yes,” the woman said.  “Him and his mother, in fact. The best trick yet.”

“Then yeah, we want to help!”

Olivette smiled at the boys.

“I’m very pleased to hear it.”


	15. Interim

I spoke too soon.

Fate, fickle bitch that she is, has found me yet again, asking me to destroy the one thing I do, as it turns out, love.

And I do love Oscar. As soon as Fergus parades him into the room, the moment my eyes meet his, I know I love him. 

Over the years, it's been easy to gloss over his memory, to wash away its colors from my mind. But now he’s saying my name and the millennia are ripped away like a bandage from an open wound. I can feel my heart tearing.

Oskar was good then, and he’s good now. I’ve always had a sharp eye for people, and throughout his long life, I doubt he’s done a single thing to tarnish the gift of immortality I gave him.

He takes my hand. Says, “I hope I haven’t hurt you.”

I don’t want him in a world that will possess this Darkness, whatever it is.

And that’s why I’m pulling him to me.

That’s why I’m gripping the fountain pen rather than screaming myself raw.

That’s why I’m keeping my eyes locked on you, Fergus, as I rip Oskar’s throat open. Imagining it’s your blood I hear hitting the pan.

This spell called for the sacrifice of a love because, according to the book, the caster has to serve as a conduit. Or a missing link. The Mark at one side of the chain, the Darkness at the other, and the caster what joins the two. 

The link is betrayal. The link is loss. The link is a yearning that can never be fulfilled.

Agnes decorated the page with all kinds of poetic words and warnings, but they were only that— words. They meant nothing to me. Until now.

I’m reciting the spell with Oskar’s blood still hot on my hands. While my rage, my pain, my treachery against the one person I loved swallows and scalds the tattered remains of my heart. 

Look at me, Fergus. Know this is your ruin.

Look at me, Angel. Soon you’ll give your father my regards.

“ _ Tolle maledictionem tuam ab hoc viro _ .”

I drop Dean Winchester’s hair into the bowl, and the world burns with me.


	16. Chapter 16

_ “Oh, poor, poor Rowena. Always the victim of one conspiracy or another.” _

_ — Olivette, 10.16, Paint It Black _

* * *

 

The wind tossed Rowena’s hair, laying her skin bare to the evening’s bitter breath. She shivered against it, but couldn’t bring herself to go back inside. Not with Fergus crumpled in the corner of the room, reeking of cheap whisky and wheezing through his broken lips.

He had gone straight to the bottle when he got home, and this time, she didn’t raise hand or voice to stop him. The way he had plod past her — not angry or whining, his face hollow of recognition, as if she didn’t exist — made it feel as if the phantom of her father walked in his place. 

She, herself, was a ghost bound in paper skin. Like one of her books. A dry illusion of life made from what had once been vibrant and strong.

Above, Cassiopeia was making her shameful crawl across the dark sky, and Rowena lost track of time while observing her struggle. Darkness above or that within, she took turns drifting in both, closing her eyes when even the starlight was too much to bear. Lost in their solitude, she had nothing left to sacrifice, which meant there was nothing left to lose.

Until even her shadows were taken away. 

They came from the distance, a line of flames dancing across the horizon, little fireflies bobbing all in a row.  For a moment, she stared, transfixed, the sensation of slipping into one of her childhood nightmares paralyzing every thought and motion. 

Nearby, a branch broke in the gloom. A harmless night-sound, but in it, Rowena envisioned a noose, heard the snap of her own neck. She jerked into action like a woman ripped from sleep, fumbling against the stone wall, practically crashing through the door in her haste. 

_That many, this late?_ _This isn’t about a brawl between children. Especially one that had my son at the losing end._

The thoughts flew through her mind nearly as fast as her fingers across her shelves. In his corner, Fergus slept on, oblivious to the approaching danger and the smash of jar and boxes, heedlessly knocked to the floor. 

_ Something’s gone wrong. And they’re not going to let me ask what that something is. _

Rowena didn’t spare the destruction a second thought, the ingredients to her many spells of no use. Given time, with fortune’s favor, she might have been able to create the kind of magic that would protect her home from such numbers, but there was no hope for that now. Now, her only option was to escape.

“Ah, there!”

She let out a sigh of relief when she found the small pouch. It was heavier than she remembered, but not as much as she’d like it to be. Inside was her brave attempt at a savings, which amounted to little more than a small weight of coins. Not exactly the kind of riches to begin a new life with, but it would have to do. If careful, she could make it last a few weeks on the road. Possibly a month, if she could suffer her stomach.

Fergus made a choked sort of snuffle from beneath his blanket, and the error of her plan scalded her stomach with a turn of bile.

“It’s not enough…” she murmured. “With me alone, I might be able to get by, but...”

She began to pace, clicking her nails against her teeth. 

“I can leave you here. They’ll burn me without a second thought, but you? You’re just a child! ‘An innocent victim of circumstance,’ they’ll say. Looking like that, how could they not pity ya?”

Reluctantly, Rowena slid her eyes to the boy. Fergus didn’t so much as flinch at her words. If not for the small rise and fall of his chest, she could’ve taken him for dead.

“You’ll be fine on your own,” she insisted. “You’d be in greater danger if I took you with me.”

Rowena, mistress of manipulation, clenched her charm so tightly in hand that her nails cut bloody crescents into her palm.

She couldn't convince herself of the lie.

He was her blood — and if they thought her a witch, they’d think him the Devil’s son. Fergus would be buried under the same condemnation they cast on her.

Through the distance the voices of men traveled, like a peal of thunder, quiet but steadily growing.

“Count the seconds between their screams for blood to see how fast they're approaching,” she mused, a hysterical twitter welling in her chest.

Rowena raked her hands through her hair, thought of the forest she knew better than any. If she moved quick, tread carefully, she could be nestled in the deep green shadows before those idiots could find their way to her door. She could escape, so long as she ignored that voice in the back of her mind — the one reminding her that every gain required a sacrifice. A life for a life.

As if he heard her thoughts, Fergus turned in his sleep, and then whimpered at the pain the motion caused.

"...Damn it all.” 

Rowena wheeled in the low light of the room, teeth bared. She wanted to be heard. By either God or Goddess, the ghost of parents or the bones of what had once been a lover.

“Damn all of you! I’ve given enough as is, and who are any of you to demand I keep giving!”   

_ I’m not. Not any more. No more sacrifice. _

Fergus hadn't been small for years. When she grabbed him beneath his arms, he was dead weight, still unmoving save for the pain contorting his bruised face.

_ I'll save my sins and myself _ . 

"Fergus!" Rowena cried. Fergus, you've got to move! Wake up!"

But he only groaned.

*****

 

Surely, being roasted alive at the stake could hurt no more than this. Every mouthful of air was liquid fire in her chest, and her arms and legs burned as if oil ran through her veins. But she didn’t dare stop to rest. Every time she had before, it was harder to pick Fergus back up. If she dropped him now, she was certain she wouldn’t be able to raise him again.

The trees were less along the drover’s road, a narrow path of sparse grass and dirt, beaten into the earth over centuries by livestock and their masters. Without the higher cover of the forest, she had to keep low, which left her blind to what lay ahead. 

_ Almost there _ , she told herself.  _ You won’t let them get the best of you. Not like this. Keep moving. Almost there. _

She didn’t stop to consider what would happen if the traveling merchants were gone. Those that stayed for the night usually camped on the outskirts of her village until dawn, leaving at first light. But they were a small community with little to offer, and it wasn’t unusual for travelers to find themselves more entertaining lodgings in the larger nearby towns.

“There!” she rasped, hearing the crackle of fire and rowdy conversation. 

Stumbling through the brush, she came upon a small cluster of tents and carriages. Somewhere in the dark was the breathy chuff of horses, and louder than them, the drunken slurs and chortles of men.

Clutching Fergus to her chest, Rowena toed around the encampment, not revealing herself until she saw the familiar face: the would-be pig trader. She wasn’t sure if it was for better or worse that he seemed sober. He sat by a fire, as solemn as ever, as those he traveled with spilled their drink and shook with laughter.

She placed herself in his line of sight, behind the backs of the others. She panicked for a moment, thinking he meant to ignore her, or worse, call the attention of his companions, but he merely stood and snorted that he needed to take a piss.

He met Rowena further back, where the light of the fire no longer reached. Even in moonlight, Rowena could see the alarm that widened his eyes, though it was there and gone in a blink. It suddenly occurred to her how she must appear to him, hair wild as a brushfire, and her son’s face bruised and swollen the color of an eggplant. But she had time no time for explanation, too fearful of who could be at their heels.

“Here,” she whispered, thrusting the pouch of money forward. “This is all I have! Take us with you when you leave here. We won’t eat much, and we’ll work as best we can.”

His hard stare lingered on Fergus, unmoving. Rowena wanted to slap him.

“Did you not hear me? I’m offering you a deal! What’s in that pouch is more than enough to pay our way!”

“A woman on the run is never a deal,” he snorted. “Especially not when people say she’s a witch.”

Rowena froze. “Who said that about me?” 

“Everyone, it seems. Though I’d wager they only started believing it tonight, given the state of ya. Get away from here. I want no trouble.”

He turned from her, but before he could take a single step, Rowena pushed herself in front of him. 

“You’re an honest man. A good man. I can tell! I’ve always been good at reading people.” She tried to focus on the weight of the charm on her chest, to sense it as an extension of herself. “You have nothing to lose from this!”

“If you’re fleeing like this, I’d wager I have plenty to lose, my neck not excluded,” he growled. “The moment we’re spotted on the road, they’ll burn me right with you.”

“Then take my boy!” 

Rowena gasped as soon as she said it. A plea like that seemed hardly her own, words tumbled out of a stranger’s lips. But now that it hung in the air between them, she seized upon it as if it were a life raft.

“You’ll eventually be passing through Edinburgh, no? Deliver him to a workhouse!” she pressed. 

“They won't take a boarder at his age. Most don't even offer lodgings for more than a day or two,” he slowly replied. 

“That’ll be enough! I'll find him by then!” 

His look of skepticism wounded her already bruised pride, making her forget to keep her voice low.

“If you’re so concerned, then give him to a bloody church!” she snapped. “Let them practice some of that goodness they're always so quick to preach!”

He paused, and Rowena, forced to wait, shuddered and jumped at every noise in the wild around them.

“...Is it true?” he asked. “That you’re a witch?”

“Am or ain’t, it’s nothing to do with him. He’s only a child!”

She thrust out the pouch of money again. She would have cried, had she thought it could help, but she felt certain copper swayed a man better than tears.

After a moment, he narrowed his eyes. She resisted the urge to turn her face, expecting him to strike out. 

“...Well enough. You have a deal.”

Rowena hadn’t realized she was holding her breath, but it escaped her now, coasting on a shaky sigh of relief. If he felt any joy for helping her, he didn’t share it. He merely reached out and took the pouch from her.

Rowena grasped his fist as the payment was passed. Against her breast, she felt Fergus’s heart beating.

“If you take back your word, if you let any harm come to my boy in your travels, you'll be cursed,” she warned. “And believe me, no matter where I am in the world, I'll know. This hand shake seals the deal. Go back on it, and I'll have your cock withering like a sausage on a spit. Do you understand?”

As far as lies went, it was a doozy, but the way he jerked away told her he bought it.

“The sooner I'm rid of him, the better. I won't mourn the last day I ever see either of you.”

He pulled Fergus from her arms, and although she had been pained by bearing his weight, her heart protested the loss of him.

“W-wait!”

For a moment, she couldn’t see the bruises on her boy’s face. Couldn’t smell the sweat of fear, or the stench of liquor, that he carried. Leaning in toward his ear, there was only the sweetness of his skin, the ghostly memory of the fresh downy of his hair.

“Fergus… I'll come for you in a flash,” she promised.

One of Fergus’s eyes was swollen shut, but the other opened a slit, heavy with sleep. Rowena’s heart leapt fiercely at this unexpected gift, at the chance to properly say goodbye.

“Don’t bother,” the boy murmured.

Returning immediately to sleep, he was beyond her reach. And so he'd stay for centuries to come.

*****

 

Rowena no longer knew if she had a destiny, but if she did, she feared it, and so she ran. She ran from the village and its hatred, its accusations, its promises of fire or noose. She ran from the bones of demons, from her failed attempt at love. Rowena ran between the trees like a young woman who had never heard of hope.

Branches ripped at her hair, tore at her clothing. Malicious, dark fingers stretched out from the earth to claw at her feet. Her beloved forest, the only place she had ever felt truly safe, now refused to let her go. 

In the distance, smoke from the wreckage of her parents’ home rolled across the land in warning, but the night was far too thick, the moonlight now too hidden, to allow her safe passage.

“Matheson, this way!” a man shouted, too close for comfort. Further off, hounds howled in pairs.

Rowena pressed flat against a trunk and held her breath. She couldn’t identify the voice, but she knew the name. Matheson —- that was the family of one of the boys from earlier. Mark, or Malcolm? Something of the sort. Was that the cause of all of this? Did the boys tell their fathers of Fergus’s boasts of magic, even though he had failed to make good on them?

Nearby, torchlight glittered off a wicked-edged dirk that hung from a stocky man’s hip. There was no way she was going to stop and ask him for the latest gossip.

_ Run _ , she commanded herself. Because even now, despite it all — maybe  _ in _ spite of it all — she still wished to live. 

_ Or maybe you just fear death _ , a nasty part of her whispered. 

She grit her teeth and forced her body onward.

Their torches eclipsed between towering oak and fir, blinking like eyes, seeking her from the shadows. Each time she stumbled and fell, she was certain she heard them growing closer. Too much time had been spent delivering Fergus to safety, giving the men a chance to spread out and determine where she was most likely to run. More than once she nearly collided with those who stood at guard among the trees, her escape possible only because of her familiarity with these woods. But skilled as she was, exhaustion was taking its toll. 

Her ragged breaths rushed in her ears with the force of a gale, so loud she was certain they’d hear. The land she had reached was steeper than the rest, and as she neared its crest, her legs began to fail. Falling to the moss, Rowena grit her teeth and dug her nails into the earth, rending furrows to pull herself upward. Crimson spilled between the cracks of her fingers, three nails split to the root, another gone when blindly thrust against a rock. Still, she climbed, her eyes locked with feral intensity on her goal. Just over the incline waited an unexpected drop. It was difficult to see in the day, and near impossible at this hour, but Rowena could find it even if struck blind. If she could make it to the ledge, summon the strength to scramble down the other side, she just might be able to hide within the lee of the land. 

_ I only need an hour. A few minutes. Just long enough to catch my breath and—  _

The shot of a musket roared in the night, and with a gasp, Rowena tumbled over the side of the crag, plunged into the darkness below. 

Three men listened to the echo of the shot, but when no cry sounded out, no panicked trampling of fern or bush, one of them began to kick at the ground and swear.

His companion grabbed him by the shoulder, catching a blow to his jaw for the effort. Still, he held his grip. “Enough of this, Matheson! Rowena’s gone! She must have taken her bastard and fled when Gil got away!”

Matheson’s eyes rolled wildly toward Gil’s father. He could barely see him. Not because of the darkness, but because the image of Malcolm’s corpse was seared on his eyes like a flash burn. “Gone, maybe,” Matheson growled, “but she’s not getting away. Not after what she did to my boy.”

“Calm down, you—”

“Calm down? Calm down?! Fuck off, Flynn! That’s easy for you to say! Your Gil wasn’t strung up in the field like a scarecrow, his face…” Matheson made a strangled noise, choking on the memory. “God, my boy… I could barely even tell which one was him.”

Flynn, face grim, moved past the weeping man and called out, resuming the hunt. Once he was out of sight, the third man shook his head. 

“Don’t envy him, Matheson. Gil may have made it back home, but that boy will never be right again. I saw it myself when he came running into the village.”

“You saw him?”

“Aye, eyes wide and rolled back, squealin’ like a pig.”

Matheson swiped his arm across his face, emptied his nose at his sleeve. “And he couldn’t give us a clue as to where the wench went? Nothing to give any direction in this damned forest?”

“Gil was only screaming two words, and I think it likely those will be the only words he ever says again. “

“Eh? And what were they?”

“What else? The name of that witch and her bastard. Over and over. Poor child’s gone completely mad.”

*****

 

The bullets missed Rowena. Didn’t even come close. Matheson’s attempt to frighten her had worked, but not in the way he intended. Rather than chasing her out into the open, he had startled her at the most critical point of her descent. One bad moment of judgement was all it took to literally turn her world upside down.

_ Story of my life _ , she had thought, hours later, lying crumpled at the base of the hill. 

The night had faded away, but she had not passed with it. She could only be certain because every part of her body screamed in protest of consciousness. Some might have seen survival as a gift, but if anything, to her, it was further testament of how very alone she was. If a benevolent deity was watching over her, it would let her die. 

The sky was ripe and red when she finally dragged herself to her feet. Together they bled as she moved one step in front of the other, with no other thought than to keep moving toward the sun, to drown in its fire rather than the promised one left behind.

But that was months ago, and she had new pains to consider these days. For a short time, she found temporary respite in Milan, under the care of another witch, far from the ostracization she had received in her homeland. However, that, too, was stripped away without warning. One moment she was apt pupil, and in the next, unwelcome guest. For years she had heard nothing of the Grand Coven, but now that her son was gone, the very proof of her guilt, suddenly they deemed it fitting to put a mark on her head. She could only suspect Olivette had heard of her education under Leticia and finally made good on her promise.

But no matter the cause, the result was the same. 

Rowena, once more, was left with nothing.

She didn’t know where she was, found it difficult to remember the paths taken. The days and weeks were marked only by the scars on her feet. She could no longer recall when she last ate, though it seemed important that she do such. Her body wasn’t quite responding as it should. Everything shook. Knees, hands, vision. The land had smoothed to gentle hills, and yet every step was a more brutal challenge than the last.

Without a destination, it was meaningless, anyway. Rowena was Sisyphus, and this beautiful countryside her personal Hell. It was disappointing. She had been expecting more fire and brimstone, and the nights were cold as a bitch.

One morning, upon awaking, she decided not to take another damn step. Rowena was not beaten by the elements, not by exposure or stupid little minds who chased her from her own home. It wasn’t her head, which buzzed, or her stomach, which was shriveled, that would be her downfall. 

No. It just so happened that today felt like a good day to die, and Rowena always did whatever she damn well pleased.

The late summer sun was exceptionally warm, smooth and sweet as honey. Not a bad memory to take with her, and everything was going well, until a tousled blonde head leaned over her own, blocking the light.

A small face was looking down at her, the young eyes wide with worry.

She flinched, struck with a sudden fear, but he caught her hand softly, and looked back over his shoulder, shouting for his mother.

Rowena couldn’t so much as stir. The sun had begun to set without warning, a darkness moving in from the edges of her vision. 

“Don’t go,” the small boy pleaded. “Mum, please don’t go.”

Rowena smiled triumphantly as her world rolled to black.

“Fergus, you  _ do _ love me. I knew you’d come around.”


	17. In Inceptum Finis Est

I can’t understand why my lashes are wet. I recall the reason, but it seems so foolish. Like remembering the way you cried as a small child after breaking a toy. Such real pain at the time, but so… insignificant, in retrospect.

The chains fall from me like my cares as Fergus looks on in disbelief. I wouldn’t have thought my opinion of him could get any lower, but I was wrong. Before, when I arranged for him to die at Samuel’s hands, I admit, a small part of me regretted it. Not the idea of having him killed, but the fact that I wouldn’t be there to see it. His death used to mean something to me. Now, I couldn’t care less. 

But I don’t want him to think me a totally heartless mother. For all my pomp and show, I do prefer for people to have a high opinion of me. And so I decide to leave him a parting gift. Something to remember me by. My boy’s always wanted a pup, and lucky for him, we have a homeless one right here for the taking. House-trained and everything. Oh, he might have a bit of bite to him, but with every gain there comes a sacrifice, as we’ve all learned by now. 

Good deed done, without another glance, I leave it all behind. 

Fergus and his screams.

The lifeless body of a boy who should have lived forever.

A room full of children who once meant everything to me, and now nothing.

The sky is stretched above, so bright and warm that if I were to raise my hands, I’m sure I could feel its warmth spill between my fingers. I breath in the outdoor air for the first time in days, and though I’m in the backlot of an industry gone to piss, all I can smell is rich moss and harebells. A song I had forgotten touches my lips and raises me above all the shadows of my past. They’re tread beneath my feet, left behind like all the rest.

I am safe and I will live forever.

 


End file.
